


If Love Could Light a Candle

by pastiche_pen



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Historical, Meyer Took Away Midnight Sun and This Was How I Coped OKAY?, Psychology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-25
Updated: 2009-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 102,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastiche_pen/pseuds/pastiche_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward Cullen: telepath, vampire, and psychologist. When a new patient ignites unfamiliar feelings in his soul, can he reconcile his past with his future? A la Midnight Sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If Love Could Light a Candle

**Author's Note:**

> I'm moving this over from [FF](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5022358/1/If-Love-Could-Light-a-Candle) so that whoever wants can use nifty Ao3 features like Kindle downloads, etc.
> 
>  
> 
> Banner by the lovely Angstgoddess003  
> Beta by JennyFlyRocks 

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February 3, 1928 - Chicago, Illinois 

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_

_If Anne whips up her beef casserole, then the bank ain't closed tonight! She always makes that when she's all…_

_1539 or 1527 Mable Road? Both properties need new plumbing. The amount of dough to even get a John working in one of them would run me at least…_

— _Eleanor_ _only wore that checkered pea coat because I wore my ducky new chiffon at the Christmas party! I don't care if she has a peachy complexion—or if Richard laid lines on her twice today—no South side flapper has ever beat a Hill Park…_

_Horse shit everywhere! Late for dinner. Late for Bridge. Late for... I should never have married Paul, him and his hoity-toity mother—that woman high-hats me every single…_

Sex. Jealousy.  
Hunger. Business.  
A long piss.  
Sex.  
Hate.

The inane pondering of the average human failed to interest Edward Cullen as he stalked Chicago's frozen streets, nor did the thoughts of the good, humorous, or well-intentioned bear any attraction to him.

Edward hunted evil.

He had put this hunt off. He should have hunted over the weekend, but he had been preoccupied with perfecting Ravel's _Jeux d'eau_ on the grand and hence, loathe to leave his apartments. His fast being as long as it was, Edward's throat burned, and his eyes flicked from red to black, black to red every time a human passed by.

The scents swam around him, a dark man in the overcoat breezing past the barber shop to the east—briny and zesty like sardines in aspic or stuffed pimientos. On the far end of the street a man pungent with the smells of asparagus and peppercorn wrestled with his chocolate Labrador. The dog kept whimpering with its tail down and pulling on its leash to round the corner. The animal did not like Edward's proximity. Next, a thick potion of sunflower oil and talcum, an older matron clumped her way down the street in front of him. The old broad was obese, irritable, and puffing away on her cigarette while she flushed out her mental tirade on the topic of her husband complaining over the eggs that morning:

" _I like them_ **soft** _, dear," she mentally mimicked._ " _SOFT." Soft._ _I'll tell you what else is always_ soft _you limp-dicked ingrate—you worthless…_

Her thoughts trailed off once she spied Edward's face.

_Bet he's not soft._

Edward suppressed a chuckle and continued on.

As he walked, his mind hopped from one human to the next, searching. He cringed when he found the latest.

Three blocks over a bum lay on the back steps of a brick post office. He was dying. The worming feeling had been growing in the man's chest for some hours, pain coming from one new corner after the next—from depths in his body that the man'd never felt before. Now, not even the discarded canister of backyard moonshine at his side provided any relief from the aches or the growing sense of finality.

Edward felt aligned with the bum—derelicts, prodigals—they both were. Only, Edward could not die. The bum could. Edward envied him that. But he did not envy him his pain.

Edward had to censor the fleeting thought to put the companionless man out of his misery. The bum was neither a rabid dog nor a lamed horse. He was a man—unlike Edward, and taking away his pain would be stealing a sliver of his humanity. No matter how flimsy the sliver may be, Edward would not despoil a drop of his mortal blood.

Still, though, Edward was thirsty, and there were real monsters for him to hunt, so he pushed the bum out of his mind and stalked on.

He wended his way through the streets for some hours until he came to one of his usual haunts, a murky, old church cemetery. As a rule, Edward was fond of cemeteries. They gave him a sense of contentment. The rows of stones marked endpoints in an otherwise endless world. In this particular graveyard, both the gilded and the ragged Catholics of Chicago found their final resting places. The hill held a wide sweep of headstones, crosses, simple plaques, and the odd sepulcher, all labeled with a mix of German, Irish, Italian, Polish, and French surnames.

He disliked the church next door, though. Not in the usual vampire sense. As undead killing machines, vampires derided human religion. "Christ dead and resurrected in three days—me, too!" was the usual joke. Edward hated that joke—but that wasn't why he ill-favored churches. He avoided churches because of the intensity of emotion there: love, self-righteousness, blind joy, fear, and loss concentrated in the vaulted chambers. Humanity at its best and worst.

Yet Edward stopped, sighing just for the sake of it, and began scanning the thoughts and prayers of parishioners inside: soft, whispered, fearful, hopeful thoughts. _A dying mother_. Something in Polish. He hadn't learned Polish—he should work on that. A plea for a _new job_. A child on tenterhooks for his aunt to finish up with her rosary— _only twenty-three Hail Marys more!_ A deep interest in who was going to get cut from the choir on Thursday night. And then, from a confessional…

"... mortal sins to confess, my child?"

The young priest's voice quivered on the last word. He barely had enough facial hair to justify not being called a child himself. His vestments did not fit him, drooping in the shoulders. His long, over-starched stole poked into the back of his neck. In contrast, the man sitting opposite behind the gilded screen had a thick, mahogany beard, and when he spoke, he spoke with certainty, his words cutting like daggers and punctuating like stabs.

"I have taken a life, Father. I have murdered. I am… a _murderer_." _Threw her body in the river, slit her throat while she_ _shivered..._

The priest paused for a long moment as his brain seemed to process the confession. When the priest spoke, he meant to keep his voice in a practiced tone. Unfortunately, his voice failed him in his reply. "My child, as sinners, we are not our acts but our godly potential. Would you tell me what happ—happened?"His voice went high on the last bit, and Edward noted that curiosity fought against training in the words of the young priest. He had never dealt with anything like this before.

"I hurt her because she didn't want me." _Fucked her, raped her, couldn't soothe me, so I shaked her._

The man kept his eyes lowered as he confessed, but internally he waited impatiently. The priest took a long moment before answering him.

"Do regret your actions, my son?"This was in the priest's education. Seek contrition—counsel the penitent.

"I do, father." _I do. She should have said to me: I do. And I maybe wouldn't have done her. Maybe not. Maybe so. I don't know. I don't know._

"Do you wish to reconcile your actions? To do penance? To reject Satan?" More words from his training. The young priest raised a trembling hand to wipe a layer of sweat from his brow.

"I do, father." _Wouldn't do it again. Promise. Promises. Put flowers on her grave. Daffodils. Bulbs sprout in the springtime..._

"Would you consider turning yourself in, my son?" The priest's voice broke into a crackle at the end of the question. He could see the sheen of the man's eyes through the filter of the screen. The eyes looked… alien.

"I am afraid, father." _Prison not the place. A cliff, a pistol, perhaps, but not a jail cell thrall._

The priest felt to be at a complete loss. He heard neither fear nor remorse in the man's tone—but yet how could he know what was in his heart? Surely… He took a deep breath before continuing. "You have harmed a sister of Christ, a sister of your own. Do you not wish to make amends, my son?"

"I do, father."

But Edward knew he didn't. Meanwhile, the priest was trying to regain control of the situation. He knew there were many things he should be saying, questions he should be asking, but instead, the young priest sat in a cold sweat behind the divider. He did not believe the man was absolved, but knew that he ought to be in control and directing the course of the sacrament. But he wasn't in control. Thus, he spoke without thought."I want you to pray about this, my son."

Edward swore out a string of oaths. He wanted to slap the imbecilic sap for his incompetence.

The murderer gave a lazy nod as he leaned back on the small kneeler. "Am I absolved, father?" _If I'm absolved, I can have one drink. One only. A glass to mourn the departed..._

The priest spoke again in his not so steady voice. "God forgives all—Why don't you light a candle?—Consider turning yourself in?" The young priest smoothed his stole and reminded himself that it was the penitent's intentions—not the tone of voice—that made the reconciliation hold true.

On the other side of the divider, the murderer sat preoccupied with his choice of wine for the evening. "I will do what you ask, Father." _Champagne seems wrong, better something Italian—or fuck, skip straight to Johnny's stash..._

The priest gave a sigh of relief, the ordeal over. He bowed his head and took peace in chanting the rites of absolution. _"Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate…"_

An absolution and an Act of Contrition later, the false penitent left the confessional. The priest, knowing better but failing in stopping himself, sneaked a glance through the latticework. He only saw the back of the man's long wool coat. He did not recognize him.

In a dim alcove in the back of the church, the murderer knelt in front of the table of glowing, red candles. He reached into his well-tailored pocket and pulled out a finger-smudged dollar to slide into the coin slot of the battered oak box. He grabbed a candle from the slat on the edge and proceeded to light three candles.

Edward took a deep breath as he realized that this young woman had not been his first.

_Doris. Amelia. Caroline._

The man remembered each of the women.

_Fat lips, small waists, lips stretched wide, screaming, screaming..._

Edward waited on the wrought iron park bench across from the churchyard. His thoughts left his quarry only for a moment when he perceived with a grimace that the bum had met his end on the concrete steps a half mile away. Edward couldn't see this, but the thread of thoughts and sensation had ebbed and halted, so Edward knew. That space of the world lay silent now.

The frozen winds from Lake Michigan were bone-chilling at this time of night, and he had sat long enough that the tips of his bronze hair had started to freeze. He gave his head a shake when the tall figure started down the church steps. His prey skipped in high spirits: _Barnaby's juice joint'll probably have a good crowd tonight. Chester finger up his ass and piss on fire as usual—Manny with a free drink or two if I flirt—pisses off Val—a pissed off Val'll piss all over a fine night—fucking pill. Erica's due a lick or two anyway. Juicy, little cunt'd better play nice. Lucky the little bird has gams like Sheba. Don't give a fuck or a half about her pussy problems…_

Edward fell into step behind the tall figure, observing with satisfaction that they were gliding along the cemetery now. To Edward, the shadows, cracked marble, and terse memorials were simple, pure features. He found sweetness in the engraved titles: "beloved mother," or "devoted friend." Even the morbid sepulchers, raised tombs, and pagan carvings seemed beautiful, and he liked the patterns of family stones in their special sections, mapping the genealogy of the parish _—_ nothing more than signs of the final stage of a normal human life.

But then again, vampires saw through the shadows _—_ death was their daylight. Edward could see the individual lines in each blade of dulled grass and the subtle glint of frost on the edges of every grave. It all seemed fairly regular to him.

But to his prey, it did not.

Edward knew this from the uptake in his breath, the extra hop in his step, the stiff arc of his neck, and the stench of adrenaline and the perspiration leaking from his lower back and underarms. The man could hear Edward's steps. He knew he was being stalked. And yet his prey was accustomed to being the predator. Thus, at the corner of the cemetery fence his quarry spun on his heel and faced Edward, ready to reverse roles, ready to regain his usual place of dominance.

Instead the man found himself cowering in fear. Edward did not stop walking. He walked up and stared at man. He stared with red eyes and smiled with inhumanly white teeth, a face as pale as death.

"What?" the man demanded. His voice didn't shake.

Edward paused for only a second before he stepped forward, speaking the names aloud.

"Doris."

Pause.

"Amelia."

Pause.

"Caroline."

The man's eyes widened though he tried to hide his fear. He looked pitiable, Edward thought. An unaware passerby might think him a nice-looking man in an unfortunate set of circumstances.

Edward flung him against the fence with a snap of his hand. A bent rail hit the kidney. The man let out an agonized scream. That had hurt.

_Not as much as he had hurt Doris._

Edward replayed the man's memory in his head. He had _cornered her in a sitting room, found a crowbar and…_

Edward punched him in the kneecap. He heard the crackling bits of bone and cartilage.

Broken, pulverized.

Wailing—squealing, like the unearthly sound of a deer being ripped alive in the jaws of a lion—screeching like a rabbit in the talons of a hawk—making noise like an animal makes noise when it accepts that silence will no longer hide it from pain or death.

_Amelia had wailed._ She had made those noises at the end. The savage in front of him had enjoyed those noises. Edward did not enjoy them.

Edward sacked him between the legs next.

He had… _the hot poker_ … Edward did not want to replay what he had done to Caroline.

Down the road, two men had heard the howling-shrieking-wailing cacophony and had joined together to come investigate. Neither man had wanted to come alone. Edward rolled his eyes at their weak attempt at bravery—a nuisance, but Edward did not feel the need to drag out this affair, anyway. The man was still shrieking, however, so Edward clamped a hand over the mouth and leaped with him over the fence, running into the shadowy recesses of the cemetery.

Edward pressed him against a strangled looking elm and bit just under the jaw. He drank, pulling in the bittersweet stream, sweet like blood always was, but bitter from the adrenaline—a reason to kill quickly, even if Edward's mission demanded that he punish. Edward drank, losing himself as the thrilling waves rolled down his body, his throat loose and lackadaisical as the blood coated it like sweet aloe. He barely noticed the thrashing limbs slowly weakening or the piercing wails cutting off in a gurgling croak.

Edward buried the man in the fresh grave. The cemetery was convenient.

And then he went back to the darkened church.

He walked into the same alcove flickering with crimson candlelight that he had seen through the murder's mind. He shoved a handful of bills and several coins into the small wooden box—probably over fifty dollars—he didn't care to count. It had been the contents of the man's wallet. Edward picked up the long stick of wax and dipped the wick into a ready flame. The threads of the wick ignited, and Edward brought the flame to a dusty candle in the back row.

Edward knelt and said a short prayer. The prayer was for the bum.

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_December 18, 2004 - Forks, Washington_

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Carlisle handed him the sheet, and Edward scanned it, furrowing his brows as his eyes considered and logged the names on the roster.

"I can't do all of these."

"You can help these people," Carlisle insisted.

Edward shook his head. "Not all of them." He pointed at the list. "I am not touching these. No schizophrenia, eating disorders, or any extreme personality disorders. Those thoughts… I might as well scramble my brain."

"Eating disorders scramble your brain?" Carlisle asked with a quirked brow.

"They do. Teenage girls' lack of self-esteem has yet to humble their x-rated imaginations—and well—I'd rather not—high school is one thing—but doctor fantasies—besides, they'd be better treated by someone with a modicum of understanding, preferably a human female."

Carlisle nodded with a bemused smile, his curiosity spiking for an instant over the "doctor fantasies," but then he suppressed his pondering and focused on the task at hand. "But Edward, as far as the personality disorders are concerned, Ulon and Farraway both have split personality disorder, you could—"

"Quinn Ulon is an attention-seeking fraud, and Mary Farraway has some sort of physio-chemical problem that could use medication. I heard their minds when I visited you at the office."

"But Edward," Carlisle said, his golden eyes widening, "You must see it! That information is in itself groundbreaking. Psychologists and psychiatrists are titled as doctors, but we treat people with mental illness the way a veterinarian treats animals—we are well-intentioned, but we're lost, Edward. _Lost_. But you…" he looked down at his son.

"I can help. I know." Edward thumped his head back into the upholstered armchair for no other purpose than to plainly exhibit his frustration.

"You said you wanted to do this, Edward," Carlisle urged.

"I made a passing comment about wanting to make amends."

"It wasn't a passing comment," Carlisle stated. His gold eyes looked squarely into Edward's matching gold.

"Who's pretending to be the mind reader now?"

"You still play that song," Carlisle reminded him, sitting on the couch opposite him.

Edward decided to redirect the conversation. Carlisle's earnestness could be trying, to say the least. "But Carlisle, no one's going to believe I'm old enough to be a clinical psychologist. I'm physically seventeen for chris—"

"—yes, they will," Alice chimed knowingly, cheerfully, and annoyingly as she pranced into the room.

Jasper followed in step behind her— _quit yer bellyachin'_ —was his thought as he sent a wave of calm to Edward. The calm caused Edward's growl to cut off, though it didn't entirely smother his irritation as Alice shoved a pair of square frames onto the bridge of his nose.

"You'll need to wear these to look older, and you're tall enough, so your patients will assume you're simply blessed with boyish good looks. No worries, I'll be dressing you." Alice winked at him.

Edward turned back to Carlisle. "I'm starting to think high school might be preferable," he stated in a flat tone.

In response, Carlisle smile vanished, and he gave a despondent look at the stack of case files.

"Edward," Jasper drawled with more twang than usual as he grabbed the remote and started flipping through the channels. "Let's just put an end to yer peacocking about and give old sawbones' idea a shot—you know you want to." Edward frowned at his "brother," who had changed the channel on the wide screen to The History Channel. "I _know_ you want to." Jasper tapped a finger against his temple.

Edward shook his head at Jasper."Shut it, Secesh."

Jasper laughed. He liked it when Edward threw his era's slang back at him. His laughter cut short, though, as he paused to analyze Edward's emotional state. "You require employment," _and a good screw, Edward._ "You need a break from yer normal round of mental hernia—even if that means jawing with a few cuddly housewives over the death of their goldfish."

Carlisle frowned at Jasper's derogation of clinical psychology. Edward was frowning, too, but it was due to Jasper's crass side thought more than his commentary.

Alice, forestalling a possible argument, cut in, "Jasper's right. I've _seen_ it," Alice insisted, taking a file from Carlisle and peering through the pages.

"Know-it-alls," Edward muttered under his breath.

Carlisle gave a fake cough. The resulting laughter broke the tension.

Edward sighed, casting a glance over at Alice who was grinning. She'd foreseen his decision-making down to the second. "Who's the first to get shrunk?" he asked with an extra dose of misery to his voice.

Carlisle picked up the roster and scanned down the list until he settled on a name. He picked up the corresponding manila file, opened it, and read, "Seventeen year-old female. New living situation. Moving from Phoenix, AZ to Forks to live with her father. Symptoms include possible depression, reclusiveness, and maladjustment. Simple enough, with your power you should be able to get her to open up." Carlisle nodded to himself and then handed the file to Edward.

Alice snatched it before Edward could grasp it.

The visions playing through Alice's brain had stopped him short: _A young woman, simply dressed, walks into his consult room. Edward, sitting at his desk, looks up in surprise when she enters, but then, it happens. He catches the scent, stiffens, pounces. The young woman falls to the floor, drained and lifeless, seventy-three seconds later._

And then another flash…

_Edward sitting next to her on the chaise, eyes still gold, complaining to the young woman about bad novels. His hand is on her knee…_

When the image cut off, Edward found himself staring into Jasper's smiling eyes.

"Well, Copperhead, I ain't the only loose link any more, huh?" Jasper baited him. He had sensed Edward's blood lust from the vision. Edward didn't think Jasper had focused on the other feeling—the sense of comfort in the second vision.

"It's not what you think…" Edward stopped short, finding himself in the unusual position of being at a loss for words.

"Her name is Bella—not Isabella!" Alice pronounced, reading through the chart labeled "Swan, Isabella M." Carlisle moved to peer over Alice's shoulder at the dossier.

"I can't do this," Edward groaned to himself. Risking the life of an innocent was not why he'd signed up for this. His counseling was supposed to help people, not put them under the threat of his predations.

"Yes, you can," Alice replied, handing the chart over to Carlisle and standing up.

"No."

"Yes."

"Alice, arguing like this is childish," Edward snapped.

"Well, then, don't argue with me," Alice sang with blithe dismissal, not looking up from the file.

"Fine, but I'm not doing this."

"Yes, you are," Alice returned confidently. "I've _seen_ it."

Edward shrugged and started to leave the room.

But Alice's thoughts stopped him.

_You'll get over it, Edward. You won't kill her. You have my visions. You know better now._

Edward stood for only a minute longer before making his way down the hall. He slid onto the heavy oak bench which Esme had gifted him nearly two decades earlier. He stared at the keys for a few moments and then started picking at the lines of black and white, waiting for inspiration to strike. He smiled to himself when his fingers hit a particular set of notes, and then he went full blast into "Where is My Mind?"

The Pixies held a special place in the _fuck-you_ corner of Edward's psyche.

As soon as the melody picked up, Jasper yelled at him from down the hall. "Aid-werrrd…!" he hollered, twang at full throttle. Edward cringed though he ignored him, so Jasper began to decry the great decline and fall of American music from the couch.

Apparently, Edward's playing was interrupting Jasper's viewing of "The Engineering of an Empire." Edward shook his head and continued playing. As far as he was concerned, Jasper listened to Toby Keith, so he could go and fuck himself. A minute later, Jasper sent a wave of fatigue at him. Edward felt it rolling up his spine but disregarded it, focusing solely on the patterns of black and white and the melody filling his mind and filtering out all external thought. But then, Jasper's throaty roll of the "The South Will Rise Again" came echoing down the hall.

Edward stopped playing. He would not taint the Pixies with such antebellum gaggery. Therefore, he waited patiently for Jasper to finish his hee-hawing. With Jasper's final note finished, Edward gingerly placed his fingers on the keys.

He played "Yankee Doodle" with atypical gusto.

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_January 17, 2005 - Forks, Washington_

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_

Edward spent a week in reconnaissance to scout out the personalities of his new patients.

On Monday, Edward found himself observing a well-tended house just off main street in Forks. All seemed pleasant and quiet with the household. In the kitchen, Lisa Cheney was spinning salad greens while chicken cutlets seared on the stove. In an upstairs bedroom, Ben Cheney sat with his best friend Connor. The two of them were working on a Trigonometry assignment. They were supposed to be converting polar coordinates.

Ben was eying his pencil in boredom. "Hey, you want to watch _I, Robot_ once we're done?"

"Why isn't my calculator working?" Connor asked, still focused on his page.

"Did you set it to radians?"

"That would be the problem."

"So, yeah, I got the DVD."

"What DVD?"

"I told you, _I, Robot_."

"Oh, cool, but we need to finish this first."

They finished the problems in record time after that, mostly because Connor assiduously moved from problem to problem, while Ben figured them out. They were about to sit down to watch the movie, when they heard the front door open. Both boys looked at each other.

"Ben!" his father's voice boomed from downstairs.

"I guess I'll catch you later, man." Connor patted his friend on the shoulder, and then they both skipped down the steps.

Walter Cheney gave the two boys a nod when they reached the bottom of the steps. After Connor had left, Ben turned to face his dad. "Your trip ended early?" he asked.

His father ignored him. "Were you playing more video games?" _I don't know how he expects to get ahead in the world when he wastes his intellect on that crap._

"No." _Here we go again…_

_Yeah, right._ His father arched his brow. "What were you doing then?"

Ben's mother entered the room. She had been listening from the kitchen and had made sure to enter at exactly this moment. "Walter, you're home early!" She embraced her husband.

"They broke down and decided to settle."

"Oh, that's wonderful." _You'd think he'd be in a better mood with that…_

Ben was eying the steps. _Maybe if I just run up now, he'll stop with the nagging._

His foot had just hit the first step, when his mom spoke, "Nah-ah-ah, dinner's ready. In the kitchen. The both of you!" she swatted at her husband.

Smiling back at her, his father followed her into the kitchen.

Ben waited a second longer in the foyer. _Well, at least he doesn't hate_ _ **every**_ _member of his family…_

On Tuesday, Edward needed only a second to hunt down the thoughts of his next patient, for "John" began the morning by yelling. "I am SICK and TIRED of the Salvadorans hi-JACK-ing the fucking PIZZA in this TOWN!" John Vernon was a middle-aged, gay, and bombastic editor at Northwest Travels magazine in Port Angeles. He was prone to uncalled-for tantrums.

When Esteban, a Salvadoran in fact, stepped up to defend his home country, John stared at him in surprise, insisting he had meant no offense and that the Latinos' ability to make fine Seattle coffee—not that weak _drool_ in other cities—trumped all other possible considerations of Esteban's countrymen.

Such guileless illogic left Esteban speechless. He thought about filing a complaint with H.R., but then decided that certain people were not worth the trouble—besides, he'd heard that Mark had forced John to go to work-mandated therapy.

On Wednesday, Edward took a mental break.

On Thursday, Margaret Upton, 45, recently widowed, and depressed, did almost nothing. When she woke up at 11:07 AM, she fed the cat and grabbed a box of cereal. She sat on the couch with the TV on, though she didn't watch it, and she did what she'd done every morning for the past month: replayed her final moments with her Henry. She had been angry with him when he died. Henry wasn't like other men—never a fighter—always the sweet one—and he had stayed that way at the end, even when she had wished he wouldn't be. She hadn't forgiven herself for that. Thus, she sat on the couch, eating cereal, doing nothing, and letting her mind knot itself in insult and recrimination and regret.

Edward realized that she wouldn't come to her appointment unless he did something.

He knocked on the door.

She took her time coming, but when she answered, her mouth fell open in astonishment. Her hands clutched her robe across her chest. _Mercy me!—delivery boys didn't look this way in my day—too handsome, almost... not from PeaPod for sure—a lawyer, perhaps?_ "Er, hello?" she asked through the crack in the door.

Edward held out his gloved hand. "Edward Cullen, I wanted to introduce myself."

She blinked in astonishment. "Cullen. Oh! Carlisle's family! You'll be my…" _Why is he here? Oh—_ _ **Lisa**_ _. Lisa. Lisa. She set that appointment up before she headed back to Philly, didn't she? "Seeing Dr. Cullen was the highlight of your day! Why not an appointment with his office?" I wasn't really up for protesting much of anything at the time, and he's certainly got the good genes like Dr. Carlisle…_

"I know this isn't standard, but I wanted to introduce myself before our appointments," Edward explained in his most controlled tone.

"Oh," she fluttered. "Would you like to come inside?" _But oh, shit, the dishes, and the trashcans, I—_

"Thank you, but I'm short on time, actually. I was in the area, and I thought I'd stop by." Edward gave her a reassuring smile.

Margaret continued to blink at him. Her mind was blank.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Margaret. I'll see you at our appointment, then." Edward dipped his head to indicate his farewell.

She gave a slow nod.

After Edward left, Margaret scolded herself for a few minutes about having thoughts about a younger man—especially her _therapist_ —it didn't matter how handsome he was. And it wasn't fair to Henry. How would she have felt if Henry had thoughts like that but about a younger woman?

But then she stopped.

He'd always watched those _Angelina_ movies—even the stupid, sappy ones. She gave a huff and went into the kitchen. She picked up a plate and turned on the hot water. She was going to do the dishes. After all, you never knew when company might pop by.

Down the street, Edward turned on the Volvo. He drove home.

Today, it was the first time to see _her—Bella—_ in person, so Jasper had one arm. Emmett had the other. Jasper forced a constant blanket of calm, comfort, and satisfaction upon Edward—it was partially working. Edward's eyes remained black, his mind was half-logical, and his throat seared in agony.

Edward took his first half-a-dozen breaths on a timed cue from Jasper.

Jasper would say, "Now."

Edward would take the breath, then gasp, growl, and start to lunge.

Jasper and Emmett would push him back down. "Stop breathing!" Emmett would yell.

Edward would stop breathing.

His control had gotten better as the day had progressed, but nevertheless, it was taking a half century's worth of self-restraint, his brothers' strength, Jasper's power, and every ounce of devotion to his family not to rush into the house and drain every last delectable drop of that honey-sweet blood.

And yet, he thought, there was another factor aiding his restraint—Bella, herself. After he had been able to clear his head, Edward had been shocked to realize that even though he could hear Bella and her father talking, he could not hear their thoughts.

The three vampires had concealed themselves in the line of woods behind the Swan residence. Inside, ground chuck, salt, and onions sizzled in a cast iron pan while Bella and her father, the local police chief, exchanged a few words over the day's paper.

"Wouldn't you guess, dad, more rain tomorrow?" Bella announced. She seemed to be putting unnecessary cheer into her voice. Edward imagined that she was sad. She had arrived from Phoenix the day before. Today had been her first day of school.

"Four inches expected tomorrow, more than usual."

Edward could sense Charlie's worry over his daughter's tone, and yet he did nothing to acknowledge it. He felt unsure, lost for a solution—Edward felt his longing and regret from some past memory: something vague, yellow and too bright to stay. And yet, Charlie said nothing to verbalize the sentiment.

Edward heard a faint sigh from Bella. She stirred the meat in the pan.

The conversation was over.

Emmett turned to Edward. "Still nothing?"

Edward shook head. Bella's mind was closed to him.

"But you've been around the Chief before?" Emmett prodded.

"Once or twice at the Newton's, but I never really paid much attention to him..." Edward paused to consider this. He'd thought Charlie to be stupid, but that was not the case. "I don't hear his thoughts, but I do get the gist—he was doing calculations before with the inches of rain, then worrying about Bella—oh, and he's quite hungry."

Jasper nodded. "I picked up the same thang. Huh, it's like you ain't hearin' his thoughts—just his bare emotions."

Edward frowned at Jasper, being limited to emotions was not something to which Edward was accustomed.

Emmett spoke again, "I want to know how they do that…" He almost looked indignant.

"I don't know," Edward sighed.

"And the girly still smells like milk and honey?"

Edward fixed his unchanging black eyes on Emmett. He rolled them.

Jasper was studying Edward. "The blood lust comin' from you is just unreal."

Edward nodded. "If you two weren't here—that scent—I don't know if I'd be able to stay away. It's beyond the scope of… I've never been so _uncontrolled_ before."

"Happened to me," Emmett said. "I was on that errand for Rosalie, and the breeze carried the scent, apple blossoms and white linen. I didn't even think about resisting. I attacked."

Edward groaned, Emmett's memory of the taste had caused his already aching throat to burst into pain again. Jasper's calming influence had little effect.

"She smell like that?" Emmett pried.

"Better. Much better."

" _La tua cantante_ ," Jasper whispered.

"Your singer?" Edward translated the words.

Jasper inclined his head. "The Volturi call 'em sangers.'" He pointed to the house. "The girl, her blood sangs to you."

As if on cue, Bella came shooting out the front door, humming, her scent flowing out across the yard. Jasper and Emmett kept their hands gripped on Edward's shoulders. But Edward sat in rigid control, not breathing, his attention rapt in watching Bella.

Bella must have run outside for a short trip, for though the air was chill, she had not bothered to put on a jacket and was wearing navy cotton shorts and flip-flops. Her keys jingled in her hand as she walked quickly to the old Chevy truck parked in the drive.

Edward found himself in the odd position of being puzzled. Bella hadn't told her father that she was going out to her truck. She hadn't seen the need, he supposed. Edward also noticed that she took her steps very carefully. When Bella leaned in to grab a book from the seat, her shirt rode up, showing her small waist and displaying a full view of her very small shorts… But Edward's thoughts stopped short when he heard his brother's thoughts.

_Butt, butt, butt, butt, butt, butt..._ Emmett had fixated. Emmett was an ass man, and it seemed that Bella's behind had met his standards.

To his left, Jasper had also noticed the appeal of Bella's scent, although it smelled less poignant to him.

Edward tried to smack both of them—which they took as a sign for him trying to attack. "What are you doing?" Edward hissed, as they pushed him into the mossy undergrowth.

Both of them stopped and stared.

"Preventing you from eating your future patient," Emmett replied, looking confused.

Edward rolled his eyes. "I hit you because YOU," he pointed at Emmett, "were ogling her ass, and because YOU," he pointed at Jasper, "wanted to eat her, too."

Jasper's jaw hung open. _This ain't just blood lust. It's also—_

"—common _morals_ ," Edward spat, cutting him off.

Jasper shook his head, a sly grin stretching across his face. _Hey, now, Edward, yer gittin' all territorial over yer little human, and it aint' just 'cause she's tasty._

Emmett broke the silent exchange. "She does have a nice butt," he assured in mock solemnity. Emmett tended to resort to simple crudeness when his family's mental antics tested his unlengthy patience.

"Shut it, Emmett," Edward muttered.

"Aw, acknowledge the corn, brother, and Em, Ed was checkin' her out, too." Jasper wiggled his eyebrows as he smirked at Edward.

Emmett's face flattened into a wide grin, and he turned back toward the house where Bella was opening the front door. "I mean, I'm not saying that there's an ass in the world that could compete with my Rosie's, but for a human, Bella's is upscale, and those, I might say, are a fine pairs of legs—" His words cut off when Edward tackled him.

Jasper joined in the fray with every sense of brotherly duty.

They had to halt the mêlée a minute later. Edward had managed to dodge both Emmett and Jasper's pounces and had got in a swipe that had sent Emmett into the trunk of the full leafed walnut, severing the tree halfway from its top, causing a shower of leaves and nuts to rain down on a laughing Emmett. But the shuddering crack had been loud.

They all tensed when they heard the creak and whine of a window opening. Bella's pale face peered out through a second story window in the house. Her soft brown eyes scanned the yard and the forest, pausing when they rested upon the newly cleared spot in the tree line. She stared for a minute before shaking her head as if to reprove herself. Then, she stepped back into her room.

The three vampires lay silent until the window squeaked shut again.

As they ran back home, Edward tried and failed to sort out the turmoil brewing in his chest. He couldn't name it. He didn't know if it was the silence of her mind, her enticing perfume, the fragility in her step, or Alice's visions playing tricks on him, but he did know this:

He was anxious for her first appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. 20's era slang:
> 
> Bank's Closed - no kissing or making out  
> Dough– money  
> John– toilet  
> Ducky– good  
> Line- Insincere flattery  
> Flapper - A stylish, brash, hedonistic young woman with short skirts & shorter hair  
> High-Hat- To snub  
> Aspic – savory gelatin. Today, it's used to glaze show pieces in food competitions to make the food glisten, but its original use was to prolong the shelf life of food. Glazing the entire item cut off the oxygen supply to the food, preventing bacteria within from multiplying. (Yes, this horrifies me.)  
> Juice Joint - a speakeasy, illegal Prohibition Era bar  
> Sheba- an attractive lady. (Sheik for a male.)  
> Gams - nice legs
> 
> 2\. Prayers by the acting priest, e.g. the absolution, in the sacrament of reconciliation would have been said in Latin pre-Vatican II. In the Catholic sacrament of Penance, all confessions are absolutely confidential under the Seal of Confession. Should a priest violate the seal, he would be excommunicated and most certainly, no longer a priest. A reader made a note to me that excommunication does not mean that one is irrevocably damned to hell. This is true, but excommunication is the church's way of warning someone that they are doomed if they don't repent, so it's a pretty big deal.
> 
> 3\. Catholic consecrated candles for the dead: I couldn't find an entry on this, but it's common practice in a Catholic parish to have a table of candles in the back (the candles are typically made by the nuns) as a way to pray for the dead. You have the option to give alms when you choose to claim a candle for a deceased, and you say a prayer as the candle burns for the departed.
> 
> 4\. Jasper's Civil War slang:  
> Bellyache - complain  
> Peacock About - strut around  
> Copperhead- Northern person with Southern, anti-Union sympathies; a common North-American poisonous snake  
> Jawing - talking  
> Sawbones - surgeon  
> Secesh - derogatory term for Confederates and Southerners: secessionists  
> Acknowledge the Corn - to admit the truth, to confess a lie, or acknowledge an obvious personal shortcoming


	2. Perhaps the Box Is Better Left Closed

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February 1, 1927

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Edward stalked into the library in a tempest of disgust and outrage. That savage animal had done it _again_. He had approached the landlady, smile sweet as a pie, dulcet tones in perfect clarity, and worn Bible pressed against his chest. He'd asked for a room, "nothing big—just a simple space for a 'simple man.'" Taken in, the woman had given a discount—a _DISCOUNT_ —to a damned fiend.

"He's murdered _again_!" Edward started to slam his fist onto the heavy oak desk—but stopped at the last second. He punched the air instead.

Edward was losing a battle against the visions in his head—clammy hands on a pale neck—eyes wide, too much of the whites showing—a face so pallid and lips an ashen blue—a silvery scar across the jaw seeming to stretch—and then there was the joy—lunatic and disgusting and black. The joy snaked through the brute, adrenaline and ecstasy and fervor. When he had… finished with the corpse, he'd stowed her underneath the bed and carefully smoothed out the wrinkles in the cornflower blue quilt. Then, he'd buckled his pants, combed his hair in the mirror, and swiped the jewelry box on the way out.

Edward thought, were he human, he would have upchucked.

In front of him, Carlisle exhaled long and slow, before steeling himself. "You're right, Edward. We should stop him from doing further harm." _They should never have released him from the asylum. He strangled that girl before he had even reached his majority. I'll never understand—_

"He's a MONSTER, Carlisle! He's not human! He doesn't _think_ like a human," Edward spat.

Carlisle frowned at Edward but his thoughts remained clear and calm. _You would know, Edward, but that doesn't justify going after him. We should stop any further deaths—_

"We can't stop him if he does it during the _daytime_. The woman's house sat isolated in the middle of a field. Don't you think I would have stopped it if I could have? But we, _vampires_ , we do 'sparkle,' you know," he muttered, scoffing as he gritted his teeth.

Carlisle did not like the way Edward had emphasized "vampires"—it brought up an old argument, and he did not want to go there with Edward today. "You're right. We should come up with a plan to turn him over to the authorities."

Carlisle's desire to placate him only angered him further. "No _evidence_ , Carlisle. They'll just set him free. It's not like I can march into the police station to declare my undead, mind-reading self to be a witness."

"Edward—you're being unreasonable. You—"

Edward cut him off.

"I want to kill him."

Carlisle closed his eyes and shook his head.

_No._

"Esme killed a human."

"An accident Edward—my fault, she never _chose_ to—"

"She killed a _human_. This man is not a _human_."

Carlisle did a rare thing. He raised his voice at his son. "Human! He is a _human_! He might be ill in the head—but he is a _human_."

"He's evil—and I'm going to—"

"NO. You won't. You know better. You—"

Edward cut him off. "—you say that! You _always_ say that, and I know that's what you want to believe, but maybe, Carlisle, _God forbid_ ," he mocked, "maybe, I'm just a v-a-m-p-i-r-e."

"You're more than that."

"Just swell, Carlisle. I'm a 'good vampire.'" Edward rolled his eyes and turned his back to Carlisle.

"You are."

Edward looked back around, staring at his father for a long minute, and then he spun on his heel, flinging open the door and disappearing out and into the night. Carlisle's thoughts followed him, calling him back, but Edward disregarded them, running into the black.

\+ ll + ll +

It didn't take long for Edward to find him.

He caught the scent at the victim's small home. He did not linger—the thoughts in the house were too much.

_Agony._

The woman's husband had found her. After discovering his wife missing, he contacted the police. While waiting for them to arrive, he had knelt down at his bedside to say a prayer for his wife of twenty years. He was devout. Both he and Anne had been. It was while he was praying that the husband saw the lock of hair trailing out from under the bed.

His daughter-in-law and the police were still trying to calm him.

Edward followed the trail from the house to a back alley gin mill's porch to a double dime barber to the corner trolley stop and from the trolley stop to the eastern bus depot. Fortunately, only one bus had left in the past two hours, so Edward kept the trail.

Edward found him an hour later. The fiend was holed up in a roadside inn just out of town. He lay on brown bed sheet, staring unseeing at the ceiling while masturbating to the images in his head—the same images that had made Edward want to wipe his brain clear.

Edward thought about smashing through the window in that instant—but he stopped himself.

He had never killed a human before.

As a human, he had wanted to kill. He had romanticized it—being a soldier, a dashing fly boy like in the pictures. "Die for your country!" Edward sniffed. _Bushwa_. Human minds were futzing buckets of petty, scummy murk, and those at the top of the food chain—those in power—had the foulest concoctions swirling between their ears. The whole idea of war disgusted Edward now, for he had seen the minds of the boys returned from the trenches, innocence replaced with darkness and trust replaced with permanent suspicion. Not to mention the severed limbs and lost brothers. A waste. A gross waste. War. Nothing more than self-important pin heads at the top pushing their pawns across the chess board, lines of blood in the wakes of their moves.

And yet, Edward envied the soldiers.

At the same time that his schoolmates were shipping overseas and fighting the Central powers, Edward was hunting mangy deer and the occasional mountain lion in the remote Rocky Mountain wilderness. A newborn vampire, raging at the smell of human blood—and Carlisle had kept him bound by guilt.

At the time he had been grateful. He had learned to appreciate "good" minds, those minds unadulterated by greed, power, or deceit. Carlisle had a pure mind—pure but deep. His thoughts ran in complex and random patterns and yet stayed in a constant orbit—wise but loving, always compassionate. Compassion. The thrust behind Carlisle's every thought.

But Carlisle wasn't always right.

He made mistakes. Edward knew this, and he was certain that Carlisle stood incorrect in the matter of the bastard on the hotel bed. That animal was not merely off his nuts or some screwy palooka misunderstood—he was evil. Evil.

Edward felt an obligation to do something about it.

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He knocked at the hotel room door. Inside, the man sat up, listening, curious as to why anyone would be knocking on his door. He'd already left a cash deposit at the front desk. He called aloud, "Who is it?"

Edward answered in a higher voice than usual. "I have towels from the front desk. Housekeeping forgot to deliver them."

The man had been wondering about the towels—these road side joints were always finicky about the towels—and it was a regular crap-shoot as to whether or not you would get one.

Thus, he had a smile on his face when he opened the door.

The muscles in his face had not even had the time to retract the smile when Edward smashed him into the mattress.

"Murderer," Edward hissed.

What shocked Edward was his calm. His mind went blank and continued forward in kicks and starts before falling into rote repetition. Bible verses, one after the next. _The people answered and said 'Thou hast a devil: who goeth about to kill thee?'_ — _Then went the devils out of the man, and entered into the swine: and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the lake, and were choked..._ — _And the rest of the men which were not killed by these plagues yet repented not of the works of their hands, that they should not worship devils_ —

Edward could look at his crazed eyes no longer. He broke his neck with a quick snap.

And then he tried to back away.

But he smelled it:

Like sweet brandy or smoky scotch or buttery malt.

Seeping out just beneath the surface of the skin.

A waste.

Waste, another _evil_.

Edward's teeth cut through the soft flesh on the neck, finding the artery with mad instinct.

And the taste…

His body trembled as he sucked. The warm liquid spilled down his parched throat, slicking down and smothering the searing burn completely. A burn that had never gone away before.

Never extinguished. Always there.

Even when he had hunted the animals.

But now it was gone.

Relief.

Just delirious warmth and hearty sweetness and mind-boggling pleasure.

When he had suckled the last drop, he collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily, licking his lips, and basking in the delicious high. He had never felt so— _alive_. Even when he had been alive.

This made him laugh senselessly.

Edward realized that he'd felt… _unmoved_ since being a vampire. Vampires, as immortal creatures, changed so little, and yet the blood—vital and virile—he could feel it binding with the venom in every niche and cranny of his body, even down…

Edward looked down and realized he had another problem, and it was threatening to counteract his relaxed state. He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and took care of it. When he was finished, he washed his hands in the bathroom sink. He had been messy, a rarity for him. He even had a spot of blood on his collar.

He paused when he looked in the mirror.

His eyes were fresh red.

He stood for a moment longer, deciding.

He decided that he did not care.

\+ ll + ll +

When Edward stepped into the room, Esme and Carlisle greeted him with silence and disappointment.

Esme fled the room. Upstairs her thoughts were in upheaval, so Edward focused on Carlisle. Carlisle stared at him, hurt and angry as well. "You've adhered to this for a decade—why now?"

Edward laughed. At least Carlisle didn't want to beat around the bush.

"Because _you_ wanted me to. Because _you_ believed in it. Not because of _me_."

"But Edward, the bonds of love in our family, they're based on the goodness that comes from—"

"I promise you. I won't kill the good ones."

Carlisle stared at his son in shock.

 _Don't say that._  
No.  
You're staying here.  
You're my son.  
Think about Esme.  
We love you, Edward.

"If I stayed here, I would have to quit."

Carlisle didn't dispute that. "It's still taking lives," he argued.

"Some lives deserve to be taken."

"It's playing God, Edward."

Edward laughed. He laughed long and hard and with a touch of hysteria. Carlisle stared at him in disbelief and confusion.

"Says the _one_ who made me what I am? Says the one who made me a… a _monster_! You have the nerve to tell me that I'm the one who is playing _God_?!"

"—Edward, please," Carlisle begged.

"Farewell, my creator," Edward spat.

Carlisle flinched but then reached out to him.

Edward pushed Carlisle's hand away.

And then Edward ran out the door.

He heard Carlisle chasing him. Esme joined in the pursuit.

But they couldn't catch him. They wouldn't.

He was faster than them as a rule, but now, with the human blood pumping wild through his veins, he was flying more rapidly than ever—soaring—each step seeming to leap off the ground, to explode and burst. Buildings turned into blurs as he swept past them. Everything disappeared, and Edward rocketed forward—a meteor, a comet, an otherworldly force.

He stopped when he reached Pittsburg before daybreak. He bought a wide brimmed hat and a pair of glasses there to hide the red. He caught a train an hour later. At Philadelphia he changed lines. In Baltimore, he changed again. In Chicago, he rented an apartment. He had a piano installed. He collected a few choice books. Then, he rested for a few days, not caring to do anything else.

On the following Monday, he began his hunt.

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_January 25, 2005 - Forks, Washington_

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Edward had visited Bella's house every day for the past week, and each time, the sanguine scent painted his eyes black, kindled the fire in his throat, and coaxed a glutinous swell of venom to coat his teeth, but day by day, the struggle had diminished—if only in minute amounts.

And Edward learned more about Bella. She stumbled a lot. Edward had to quiet his laughs every time. She never went out with friends, although she talked to a few girls (Angela, Jessica, Lauren) about schoolwork on the phone. They even invited her out sometimes, but she always said "no, thanks." She cooked dinner every night, always pasta or "meat and potatoes" type of meals—unless she made something Southwestern. She and her father continued to say next to nothing to each other, even at dinner. Bella spent most of her free time listening to music and reading. Edward recognized a great deal of the music, rock and some indie but nothing too obscure—and also some sappy love songs. Those made him grin, and then there were her books.

The books drove him _crazy_.

He couldn't distinguish the books from the forest hideaway.

When Alice had come with him on Tuesday, she had ended the torturous curiosity. Bella, as it turned out, was reading the classics: the Greeks, some Austen, and the Brontes. His initial satisfaction lasted a minute before new questions arose. Why not something of modern taste? When he heard a light laugh from her room, he wondered why she was laughing. The classics weren't funny. Were they?

Alice put up with his questions but told him he was going to have to wait for his appointment with her. When he had frowned at her comment, she had burst into laughter. She did continue to accompany him, though. Emmett and Esme occasionally came along, too.

Edward would never have asked Rosalie.

Jasper had refused to come again. He thought Edward should just drop Bella as a patient.

Or bite her.

"Ain't a doubt she's tasty—sometimes it's just better to git these thangs over with."

Alice had hit him and threatened to incinerate his cowboy hats.

"This is what I git for hoppin' the twig with a Biloxi sibyl." Jasper pursed in his lips and shook his head, even as his eyes smiled at his wife.

"Woe is ye," Alice teased with an exaggerated Southern Belle intonation. "And how is it that a girl with a proper sense of hauteur ended up with Texas Jack instead of Rhett Butler?" She plopped in Jasper's lap and popped a finger on his chin.

Jasper snorted. "Sir Rhett can kiss my Texan jackass."

Normally Edward would have laughed at this, but instead he groaned. His "siblings" were already in full lip lock, and the inevitable tongue slip was a second away—not to mention that Jasper's "emotion" had filtered throughout the room.

Esme saved Edward by bringing in the mail—except that as soon as Esme handed him a parcel, Alice broke from Jasper and burst into delighted laughter, looking at Edward.

"What?" he'd asked. He'd missed the reason for her laugh—he'd been trying to block her thoughts…

But Alice shook her head. "You'll see," she'd said, and then she'd pulled Jasper by the hand toward the stairs, a quintessentially "Alice" glint in her golden eyes.

The parcel was from Denali—from Tanya. Edward tucked it under his arm and started to run up the steps. Esme's thoughts stopped him.

_If only he could have been happy with her…_

"You both said the same thing about Rosalie," Edward said in a flat tone, not turning around.

"I can't help it, Edward. I just want to see you happy."

He turned at human speed. "I am content," he insisted.

"You are a marvelous liar," Esme replied, shaking her head.

Edward gave her a weak smirk in return.

She gave him a hug. She always hugged him, and he always hugged back, but he never initiated the embraces. She rubbed his back as they stepped away from each other. "Well, I hope Tanya sent you something nice," she wished, holding his hand for longer than necessary.

Edward furrowed his brow.

She laughed.

He gave her a final smile before zipping up to his room. He popped open the parcel, dumping the contents onto his desk. A silver DVD, unlabeled, unmarked, and with no explanation, but Edward knew what it was. He sat down onto his desk chair, holding the silver circle, frowning, and seeing his frown reflected back at him. He turned the volume off on his laptop before he let it auto-play.

And there it was.

Tanya—flawless and golden-haired—wrapped in a tiger print trench coat on his screen. She stood in the library of the Denali house, standing stock still. The light from the lone window filtered in, causing her skin to sparkle when she took steps forward. She took the steps, long and languorous and undeniably feline. She sat down with dainty self-awareness on the green pouf stool, knees spread wide beneath the trench as her fingers moved to the top button of the coat.

Then she looked at the screen—amber cat eyes staring down the camera. She opened her mouth, lips curling.

She fucking _meowed_.

Edward groaned, pulling his hair down over eyes.

He shut his laptop.

Down the hall, he could hear the distinct sounds of Jasper and Alice's lovemaking—and Jasper's inevitable projection. None of which served to help Edward in this moment. Edward stood. It was time to see his first patient, so Edward grabbed his bag and moved toward the door. But then he stopped.

He turned and sighed.

Defeated.

He picked up the laptop and tucked it under his arm before heading out.

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It was a frozen morning. The streets had iced over the night before, and the drive from Forks to the clinic had required an additional three minutes and fourteen seconds due to the inclement weather. The Neurology and Psychiatry Clinic of Port Angeles sat on East Third Avenue—a good location. The large window behind Edward's desk faced the ocean with a pleasant vista of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

Edward had only managed to set his bag down and browse a single file before he heard the screech of wheels from outside his window. Only a minute later, Alice pranced into the room with a small box, singing, "This is for that end table," before plopping down into the chaise and beginning to unwrap the box's contents. "It just arrived yesterday—but was supposed to arrive last week. You can never trust these agents, really they have no sense of a deadline," she prattled on as she removed a large amount of cushioning and insulation from the encased object.

Edward eyed Alice in alarm. She was avoiding something. Not only had she obviously cut short her "time" with Jasper, but there was the simple fact that deadlines meant nothing to Alice. She knew when packages would arrive often even before the sender did. And finally the packaged content was revealed. A small statuette with two interlocked figures.

Cupid and Psyche.

"Love and soul," Alice sighed dreamily, and then she looked up at Edward. "I thought it was appropriate."

Edward gave Alice a long stare. "Whatever you're concocting—cease and desist—preferably _immediately_. And where did you get that piece? Isn't it supposed to be in the Getty?" Edward picked the piece up by the base and examined it.

Alice grin turned mischievous as Edward read her thoughts. An _original_ —stolen and obtained through a "special" dealer, Alice's thoughts revealed. "Alice!" Edward yelled, but she was already talking over him.

"No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to it. In fact it was sitting in overstock, but now that it's been _stolen_ —which they won't notice for at least a year by the way—when we do finally return it, it will receive the attention it deserves."

Edward gave his sister a level stare.

She ignored him. "Everyone always focuses on the Canova piece, but the detail in this one is just remarkable…"

Thankfully, a knock on the door interrupted Alice, who didn't look at all surprised, but before Edward could answer the door, she shoved the square frames onto the bridge of his nose. "Don't forget," she threatened with a rather tiny index finger.

And then she opened the door to admit John, six minutes late for his 8:00 AM appointment.

Lively pleasantries were exchanged.

"I'm John!" John announced with ebullient wave. _Holy hell in Havana! No way in… Hot-fuck is my therapist? But married already…_ He was already shaking his head as he scrutinized Alice warily. _Bit creepy for such a waifish woman…_

With perfect timing, Alice introduced herself next. "I'm Dr. Cullen's _sister_. I'm Alice." She kept her expression polite, glancing back and forth between Edward and John.

"I'm Dr. Edward Cullen." Edward stepped back as he introduced himself, gesturing for John to take a seat, and suavely avoiding the customary handshake. Alice gave a quick wink and headed out the door.

"My appointment is free," John announced brassily as he sat himself down, immediately falling back into the pillows and running his fingers along the throw blanket resting along arm of the chaise. _Here I am, expecting the usual low-level 'it's what your insurance can afford' crap and lo and behold—what do I get? A cushy couch, sexual healing in a suit, and sateen pillows!_

"Your work is footing the bill."

John leaned back in his chair and shrugged. If he wanted to keep his job, he had to come here. They both knew it. _One must fulfill ones duties—and it's a whole boatload easier when your therapist looks so super duper spankable…_

"So, what would be on the agenda, Doc?" John asked.

And so they began the discussion.

Edward had no problems getting John to talk. John talked. He talked all the time. It was getting him to talk about what needed to be talked about—that was the problem. Edward had to steer the conversation back to John's problems at work. First on the agenda were John's issues with technology. For example, he got frustrated by the "ding" sound for when he received new email. Yet, John refused anyone who tried to help him adjust his settings.

When Edward pressed him on why he didn't turn off the sound alert function, John responded with "But then I wouldn't KNOW if I got email!" He proceeded to recount an "unfortunate" incident, in which one of his underlings emailed him during an important phone call, causing the "ding" to go off. John told Edward that he asked her not to do _that_ anymore. But Edward knew he lectured her for at least five minutes afterward in a voice loud enough that most of the office could hear.

So, Edward asked the John the usual question, "How do you think the yelling made her feel?"

John gave him a blank stare, before answering. "Bad enough not to ding me again."

They discussed measured reactions and not yelling at people who couldn't yell back.

"It would have been fine if she yelled," John offered. He pondered what Karen was like when she yelled.

"What if yelling made her uncomfortable?"

John frowned. "She needs to grow some balls."

"Right…" Edward sighed.

They continued.

John was also concerned with his weight. "I'm too _fat_ for an old, single gay man," he acknowledged with a sweep of a hand and a pat on the belly.

"Define _fat_."

It was time to work on realistic expectations.

"I look like a hideous ole bitch."

Edward laughed. He laughed because John was hoping he would, and because it would help with their rapport. "That's not the clinical definition of fat, John. Technically, your body mass index is what defines…"

What John didn't tell Edward, but what Edward knew was that John wasn't eating regular meals. He would pack tiny lunches, believing he only needed "a little bit." But John's "little bits" had led to a nasty habit of stealing lunches from the staff fridge. John often ate the "borrowed" lunches in front of the victim. While this infuriated any number of people, John's guilelessness had a way of disarming strong reproves.

"Do you think stealing other people's lunches is fair?"

"I only took one cookie—nobody needs three cookies." _Maybe two and a quarter._

John's bizarre diet also had quite the effect on his gastronomic system.

He farted.

At least five times in the course of an hour.

John didn't think Edward noticed, because they were quietly released—but Edward heard every last symphonic squirt. Between the farts and John's analysis of what lay under Edward's suit, Edward thought the appointment something of an ordeal. Jasper's regular ruminations comparing humans to overexcited livestock were starting to gain weight with him…

Edward also discussed John's medication. John didn't think it made a difference. Edward knew it did, but he also knew that John wouldn't continue taking it unless Edward insisted.

So Edward insisted.

John left the office thinking his therapist was a _pushy motherfucker_ —and also and most importantly, that his therapist would look good with a whip. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a finer looking shrink—even in the movies.

John swiveled his head and chuckled _, Analyze THIS._

\+ ll + ll +

After John left, Edward opened a window to allow the ocean breeze to clear out the scents in the room, the lingering scent of human blood as well as the lingering scent of...

John was down the hall taking care of that.

And then Edward plopped in his desk chair.

His laptop seemed to stare at him.

He stared back.

A test of wills.

The laptop won. Edward flipped it open, executed the file, and leaned back in his office chair. The video started up, the same sequence as before: Tanya in the cat print coat on the green pouf—and then the music started playing, and Edward jerked forward in his chair.

The piano, the horn, the strings, and then the roll of Fats Domino's "Ain't That a Shame" filled the room, causing Edward to cough a laugh in surprise. Tanya knew he liked Fats.

The music picking up, Tanya sat on the pouf a second longer, and then lifted a leg—flashing a long lace stocking and showing a single garter strap before snapping the hem of the coat back down. She rose with feline grace, and began swaying and singing along to "You made me cry, when you said goodbye," running a finger down her cheek to mime a non-existent tear.

But she was still smiling: a sinful, impious smile.

And then she spun out at toe-point, wheeling across the room in delicate arcs and axles and pirouettes, while her free hand popped open the buttons down her trench.

Edward took off his glasses.

Tanya took off her coat.

Her red-blond hair clashed against the emerald lingerie. Her skin glittered underneath.

And then she sat down on the green pouf again, her mostly bare back facing the camera, and then she leaned back all the way, so that she faced the camera, hair skimming the floor, and the tops of her breasts on display as they flooded out the top of the corset.

"It's been a few years since I said, 'hi,' in-person, Edward, and while I know you said you weren't interested, I just had to say…" she trailed off, pausing and bringing a single finger to her pouted lips as if to look thoughtful, and then... "Ain't that a shame," she crooned along with Fats.

And then the music stopped.

Tanya paused, flashing a seductive glare at the camera. "It's just that I do not _believe_ you, Edward."

And then she winked.

And spread her legs.

And her crotchless panties were on display.

And Edward's right hand found its way into his pants, though his eyes stayed focused on the screen.

Because Tanya's head was flung back and her finger had slid from her breast to her navel to down and in between…

A few rather short minutes later, Edward came before she did.

He slapped the laptop shut, even though the video continued. He was taking heavy breaths, his head resting on the top of his desk. He let out a long groan, because he wanted to smack himself for his own weakness.

_If only she weren't such a hard-boiled Slav._

But she was.

She didn't love Edward—nor did Edward love her. Tanya saw it logically. There weren't droves of vegetarian, single, male vampires from which to choose, and she found his looks and his talent desirable.

Regrettably, Edward saw no reason to join her tool box. He liked her well enough, and when her plots weren't focused in his direction, Tanya possessed a somewhat tolerable mind. She was noble, a leader. She had taken many human lovers over the centuries, and yet she had never changed any, never created a companion—Edward had always admired that.

Tanya understood the precious nature of humanity.

And yet, she failed to understand him. She didn't comprehend why he said _no_. She knew he was physically attracted to her—her various "accidental" brushes and coquettish slips of fabric obviously affected him. But it was her thoughts—her comparisons and worries and memories and future plans—no erection could ever outlast three sentences. He couldn't even bear to kiss her.

And still he felt bad, because, like him, Tanya was lonely—they both shared that, and she had been alone longer, longer than Carlisle had lived.

 _But you can't force stone to be wax,_ Edward lectured himself.

Edward shoved his glasses back on to the bridge of his nose and gazed out at the gulls flying over the Strait.

\+ ll + ll +

Bella sat with a stiff back on the chaise.

She had entered the room, head ducked low in a shy fashion and slipping her headphones off and tucking them with the CD player into her purse. She had been listening to "Bubble Toes" by Jack Johnson—that alone had made Edward smile. Then, she had asked where to sit, before settling onto the chaise, glancing about and taking in the room.

Edward had given her the canned introduction, explaining the purpose of the clinic and the goals of her therapy.

Bella had sat silent through his small speech, nodding when politeness required it. Now, she was gazing at Edward with an expectant expression, and Edward was looking back somewhat at a loss—because he had _no idea_ what she was thinking.

Blank.

He felt defenseless, a master swordsman facing his opponent with only his fists—and yet, he also felt like the worst sort of predator.

Bella smelled incredible. Intense, mouthwatering freesia. Blushing cheeks. Ivory skin with pale, blue blood vessels on dazzling display. The _lub-_ dub _-lub-_ dub _-lub-_ dub gushing of warm fluid as the valves in her heart pumped open and closed. Even with his chair close to the window and the briny ocean breeze fluttering across his face, the burn in his throat was maddening. The weeks of preparation had done little except to guarantee Bella's immediate safety.

"So why did you choose to come to therapy, Bella?"

An obvious question.

She frowned, giving one of the chaise pillows an assessing press, as she asked, "Wasn't that in my file?"

Edward nodded. "I wanted to hear your thoughts."

She blushed again—and the rush of blood in her cheeks pulled a new wash of venom into his mouth. Bella explained, "My mom is on a Humanist kick. She read an article or two on Maslow—and now she's convinced that I've gone astray on the path to self-actualization and that therapy is essential for me to 'ascend the pyramid.'" Her eyes narrowed as she spoke, bemused yet fond.

"But your mom isn't the only reason you're here," Edward suggested.

Bella seemed to flatten. She looked down at her hands. "Charlie thought it might be a good idea, too."

Edward nodded. Considering that Bella's father said next to nothing, when he did speak, he imagined it carried a great deal of weight with Bella.

"But what do you think?"

Bella looked directly at him for the first time. "They wanted me to come." She looked confused.

"But you think it's unnecessary," he concluded.

She shrugged, the blush subtly heightened in her cheeks. "No… it's complicated."

"You miss your mom?" he asked, even though Edward already knew. Every evening after nine, Bella curled up on her bed and spent two hours talking to Renee.

She nodded.

"You could go back," Edward offered—but he already knew what she would say. It was what she said to Renee every night.

"No." She shook her head, dismissing his suggestion.

"Why not?"

"Things are settled here now."

She was a poor liar, obviously uncomfortable. She bit her bottom lip and scratched along the crown of her hair. A tiny pucker formed between her brows. All easy tells. The observation made him smile, and Edward realized that if he focused, he could read her at least in part. Now, if only he could connect all the pieces in the puzzle…

"You're not happy, are you, Bella?"

Bella stared back into his eyes longer than most humans could bear. She blinked a few times, and then inexplicably muttered, "It's cold and wet here."

Edward laughed at both the randomness of her words and her befuddled countenance.

She frowned in response, and the tiny pucker was back between her brows.

"I ask because your file indicates that you seem to have isolated yourself. Why haven't you tried to make any friends, Bella?"

Bella sighed, but not with the normal embarrassment that the question would garner from most teenagers; Bella sighed like she realized she still had another chore to finish up, or like she'd been disappointed with an A- instead of an A. "I talk to people," she insisted.

"But they're not your friends?"

"Angela's okay," she offered.

"But you're not close."

"I'm new."

"But other students have tried to be your friend."

Her brow pinched again. "I'm planning on hanging out with them at some point."

Edward gave a single nod. "What do you do in the spare time?" Edward asked next, although once again, he already knew the answer.

"I read."

"What do you read?"

She looked down at her hands again, the blush was back. "Different books, but mostly classics, I guess," she murmured.

"What's your favorite?"

"I like Austen."

"Romance then?"

She looked sheepish. "Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Austen isn't exactly macho material."

"Ah, see, now you're insulting me."

Bella glanced up in surprise. "You've read Austen?"

"I have."

Her brows shot up. "I didn't mean to imply—sorry that I—"

"Once again, why are you apologizing?" Edward chuckled.

Bella stared back, lips pursed, and if Edward didn't know better, he would have said his question _irritated_ her… Bella turned away from him. "Who are the figures in the statue?" she asked gesturing to the statuette on the end table. She had been flicking glances at it on and off through the conversation, so he wasn't surprised that she used it as a change of subject.

"Cupid and Psyche."

She smiled knowingly at the statue and inched closer across the chaise to get a better view. "The detail is lovely," she murmured, "and the story is really wonderful."

"Another romance," Edward teased, but his purpose was to bring the conversation back.

She turned back to him. "You admitted to reading Austen."

"I did."

"Were you forced by an overzealous English teacher?"

"No, I read them on my own."

"Them? Plural? Which ones?" she asked with evident curiosity, her head tilted to the side.

"Most, I believe." Edward laughed again as he watched her delighted expression.

"That's impressive," she complimented, but then her face turned suspicious. "You're not lying to me are you? You didn't just say that because you read in my file that I liked books?"

"Would you like me to quote lines to you?"

Bella raised an eyebrow.

Edward began to recite, "Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."

Bella gaped. Her breathing had slowed, and yet he could hear her heart thumping a mile a minute.

Edward chuckled in response. Her expression, mouth gaping and brown eyes bright and big, was definitively adorable. Unable to stop himself, he quoted again. "If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is _memory_. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so _tyrannic_ , so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out."

"Mansfield Park!" she exclaimed. "I love Fanny Price—she saw to the heart of matters, despite the fact that she sat in the drawing room shadow with a book."

"You prefer books to people, don't you?" Edward teased.

Bella rolled her eyes. "But of course, I do." She smiled at him.

So they talked about books for the rest of the hour, the world of classical literature seeming to open a door into Bella's mind. Edward learned she'd always wanted a sibling—but preferably an older one. Bella didn't miss her old school in Phoenix. She wasn't wealthy enough to matter there. She said, "No one noticed me."

Edward had a hard time believing that.

Looking at her, Edward realized that it had been a long time—ages—since he'd really looked at a face, human or vampire. He was so accustomed to hearing the thoughts, intentions, and emotions of others, even knowing their own pre-cognitive movements before they made them—sigh, pout, snort, scowl, wink, closed eyes, grin, chuckle—that sometimes he didn't even bother to look at his family when he talked to them. He looked at humans even less.

Watching Bella, he found himself lost over and over again in her expressions. He normally considered brown eyes to be boring—a genetic default, but Bella's had an unusual amount of depth, gentle and mysteriously soft, like chocolate milk. She also frequently bit her lip while she talked. Full lips. Slightly uneven.

Exquisite—and mouthwatering. _Freesia_.

The burn in his throat.

Edward needed to stay focused.

And then Bella did an unconscious thing. She was excited, animatedly discussing the opposing views of Maryanne and Elinor in _Sense and Sensibility_ on relationships, and she scooted forward, spreading her legs wide while her hands gestured with the flow of her conversation. Her right hand rested on her inner thigh for a half-second.

And Edward's wayward brain opened the curtain on a reenactment of Tanya's tawdry stage show.

But without Tanya.

With _Bella_.

_No._

He was forced to envisage Emmett wearing a teddy bear bib to make _it_ go away, and then, with the visions gone, Edward mentally flagellated himself—sickened with himself beyond all compare. No matter what Alice's visions might say—he would never put Bella in that level of danger. If he got too _close_ to her, the smell of her skin, the rushing lines of red… there could be no recourse—she was human, and he would kill her.

Luckily, Bella noticed nothing of Edward's mental tempest.

And then it was time to go.

Bella stood, blushing as she picked up her bag and headed for the door.

Edward stood as well and smiled. "I'll see you next week. Travel carefully. Mind the ice," he urged.

"My dad put chains on my tires. I'll be fine…" Bella trailed off, looking down at her feet, before flicking her gaze up. "How old are you?" she asked.

Internally, he flipped at her question. He'd been unprepared. Externally, Edward replied calmly, "My birth certificate says I was born on June 20, 1977."

"Oh," she replied simply. She was biting her bottom lip.

And once again, he desperately wanted to know what she was thinking.

"Next week, then." She gave a final wave and exited the room.

The door swung shut behind her, her hellishly heavenly scent already fading and leaving Edward's throat angry and parched. Needing a distraction, Edward flipped open his laptop.

Tanya would do.

He would _not_ think about Bella.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The serial killer is based on the "Gorilla killer" AKA Earle Leonard Nelson. He was executed in 1928.  
> 2\. 1920's era slang:  
> Gin mill – backyard distillery during the Prohibition era  
> Fly boy – Term for WWI pilot  
> Bushwa – you say this instead of "bullshit."  
> Palooka – idiot, fool  
> 3\. Bible Verses:  
> John 7:20: "The people answered and said 'Thou hast a devil: who goeth about to kill thee?'"  
> Luke 8:33: "Then went the devils out of the man and entered into the swine: and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the lake, and were choked…"  
> Revelation 9:20: "And the rest of the men which were not killed by these plagues yet repented not of the works of their hands, that they should not worship devils…"  
> 4\. Hoppin' the twig: Getting married (civil war slang, again)  
> 5\. Texas Jack: John Wilson Vermillion (1842-1911), alias "Texas Jack," and later as "Shoot-Your-Eye-Out" Vermillion, was a gunfighter of the Old West known for his participation in the Earp vendetta ride and his later association with Soapy Smith.  
> 6\. Cupid and Psyche, from second century A.D. by Lucius Apuleius's The Golden Ass, see: www(dot)pitt(dot)edu/~dash/cupid(dot)html. Multiple tales derive influence from this, notably Beauty & the Beast, the Polar Bear King, and you might say, Twilight… (Pastiche gives a mighty wink.)  
> 7\. Canova: Refers to Antonio Canova's statue "Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss," first commissioned in 1787, exemplifies the Neoclassical obsession with love and emotion. It represents the god Cupid in the height of love and tenderness, right after awakening the lifeless Psyche with a kiss, a scene excerpted from Lucius Apuleius' The Golden Ass. A masterpiece of its period, it appeals to the senses of sight and touch, yet simultaneously alludes to the Romantic interest in emotion co-existing with Neoclassicism.  
> 8\. So, I read a bunch of articles on various counseling methods for the story. Studies show that the one consistent factor is really the relationship between the therapist and the patient. Interesting stuff. The arbitrary nature of counseling. See Sexton, Thomas L., "Evidence-Based Counseling: Implications for Counseling Practice, Preparation, and Professionalism," ERIC Clearinghouse on Counseling and Student Services Greensboro NC.  
> 9\. Fats Domino: Charts-topping musician during the 50's and 60's. Domino first attracted national attention with "The Fat Man" in 1949 on Imperial Records. This song is an early rock and roll record, featuring a rolling piano and Domino doing "wah-wah" vocalizing over a fat back beat. It sold over a million copies and is widely regarded as the first rock and roll record to do so.  
> 10\. Mansfield Park and Fanny Price: If you want to understand Bella Swan, read Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. Read for free on Gutenberg(dot)org. Bella is in NO WAY Lizzie Bennet; rather she is every ounce a modern day Fanny. I like the movie, too.


	3. The Differences twixt Monsters and Men

+ll+ll+

August 17, 1928

+ll+ll+

Edward was doing nothing. It was that time of day. The sun intruded in a single column through the ten-foot lead glass windows. Curtains in a heavy brocade of Courbet green shut out the greater part of the wild daylight outside, and Edward could do no more than lie stretched across the settee in his penthouse apartment. The settee and surrounding furniture resembled the pieces of his boyhood home—he had gone back recently to verify—but the pieces in his lake view domicile were decidedly darker. Edward stared unseeingly at the bentwood maple frame and dusty chrome motifs: moon, sun, stars. One of the sun ornaments bent in the center. His fault. He had poked it the week before in a fit of temper.

As a vampire, there was no reason for him to ever lie down, but when he was engaged in his regular "surveys," he preferred to lie down, for it was almost like meditating. Thus far today, he had spent the hour scanning the minds floating down Elders Street, but the chore had bored him after a time. Human minds pained him with their vulgar predictably.

As he did on many days, Edward was questioning whether or not civilization had done anything to improve humankind beyond the tendencies of a lesser Neanderthal. Today, he felt as if it had degenerated to the state of a lesser primate. In fact, he rather desired to march out into the street and have a good holler at the throng of passers-by for being a flock of unswervingly carnal, materialistic yokels. But he didn't think a street-side tirade would go over in the most copacetic fashion... A sparkly vampire flashing his ruby eyes at them while decrying the decline of society...

No—certainly not.

Logically, Edward contemplated, the audience would be confused as to whether an angel of the Lord or a demon from the Dark had descended to pay his respects. The smart ones would guess the demon—and they'd be correct.

Edward gave a long sigh. Too many gripes. He needed to distract himself, so he took to one of his usual methods. He searched out for a pure mind. A good mind.

To his great relief, he quickly found a favorite. Two buildings down, Dorothy Harrison sat on the edge of the back step with a carefully folded _Chicago Daily Tribune_ in her lap. Her mind was full of her reading and the boundless extrapolations of her unpolluted imagination. Her tiny hand pressed into her chin, a small gully creased her brow, and her other hand held her tangle of chestnut hair back as she sat in deep deliberation over the amorous failings of Krazy Kat in pursuit of Ignatz the Mouse.

She giggled when Ignatz threw yet another brick at Krazy.

_Silly, dumb-butt Krazy Kat._

She looked at the image again. Krazy Kat still looked so love struck.

She tried to stop herself. She even went so far as to clamp a hand over her tiny mouth, but the giggles were not to be halted, and hence, her tee-hees burst through her fingers, and her small eyes squeezed shut as she fought against her own emotion.

 _Krazy Kat is pos-i-lute-ly a_ _**goof**_ _._

Edward couldn't help it—her joy pierced his doldrums. He smiled along with her.

And then a voice broke through Dorothy's giggles. "Whatcha got there, young miss?"

Dorothy glanced up shyly but didn't speak.

"That ain't the latest _Krazy Kat_ , is it?" Roy—for that was his name—asked politely.  
 _Pretty little white dress, pretty shiny hair, and such lovely cheeks…_

Dorothy smiled up at him.

"Get another brick in the head, did he?"  
 _Smiles like a little angel, like little Millie, reminds me a bit._

Edward sat up on the couch—something about that last image of Millie—something hadn't been right.

Dorothy, meanwhile, had burst into giggles once again over the antics of Ignatz's brick tossing.

"Didn't steal that from your brothers, did you?"  
 _Girls always stealing those comics from the lads…_

Indignation filling her thoughts, Dorothy replied in a huff, "I did not, Sir!"

Roy laughed. "I see you got brothers, though. Bet they hide their comics from ya, don't they?"  
 _Feisty, little creature—like that—and nasty little boys—nothing like the nice young girls…_

Edward wrinkled his nose at Roy's images of young boys—he saw them as shitting, mud-rolling, cursing-wanking machines. He saw the girl as pure, pristine…

And then…

_Hand on her sweet little thigh, under her sweet little white dress…_

Edward was throwing open the doors to his balcony in the next instant, prepared to spring, but then—he stopped at the edge of the shadow.

On the opposing balcony, Geraldine Cromwell was hanging her family's linens. On the balcony to her left, Margie Franks was doing the same. The two were discussing Carl Panzram's arrest in Washington, D.C. as reported in the paper just that morning.

"Murdered no less than ten people," Geraldine informed Margie with her typical air of authority.

"Ten?" Margie scoffed. "I heard it was at least twenty-five—he started young, they say. Arrested the first time when he wasn't but a boy. Then, killing them sailors that way." She gave Geraldine a knowing look.

"Ooh, my." Geraldine covered her mouth in polite and well-timed shock.

Edward threw himself back and into the darkness. If he jumped out the window, they would see him. If he ran down the street, his luminescent figure would draw the attention of the fifty passers-by crowding the street below, so instead Edward ran to his bedroom. He threw on clothes that would cover him: dark pants, gloves, long sleeves, and a wide-brimmed hat. If he stuck to the shadows, he could stop Roy. Slamming his front door shut with unnecessary vigor, Edward made his way down to the basement of his building.

Two buildings down, Roy had convinced Dorothy that he intended to give her some comics.

"But maybe you should ask your mother?" he asked, pointing to the door.  
 _Except I already saw her heading out the front door with the market basket in her arms..._

Dorothy nodded politely and ran into the house. Not finding her mother, she returned.

"She's not there! She must have gone to the market," she surmised.

"Didn't tell you, did she?"  
 _Nice little girl wants to be a good girl._

" _She did not_ ," Dorothy indignantly proclaimed. She supposed her mother must have been distracted by the baby. She was always tired and distracted of late with the baby. Dorothy had already decided she never, ever wanted to have babies. _They poop an awful lot_. She sighed and looked up speculatively at Roy. _Wonder if he's got any more Krazy Kat?_

"Well, maybe we'll see her on our way, shall we?" He held out his hand.

Little Dorothy pressed her small palm against his. _His hand is furry_. She frowned but continued on with him.

Edward walked out the back entrance to his building, edging along the alleyway, but then a group of children rounded the corner, laughing and leaping and kicking a rubber ball, which ricocheted off a stack of old crates and down toward Edward. Edward lightly kicked the ball, sending it soaring down the alley in the opposite direction. The children laughed and gaped at his kick. He accepted the exclamations of "Whoa!" and "Swell kick!" with a wave of the hand and waited with mad impatience for the children to round the corner.

And then he climbed, all the while frantically monitoring the surrounding minds to be sure that no one spied him. Ten floors up, and then he was on the roof.

Dorothy and Roy, meanwhile, had reached the docks along the river.

"You want to see my boat?" he asked.

"You have a boat?" Dorothy asked incredulously.

"Yeah, I live on the boat."

Dorothy couldn't help but be intrigued. She loved boats—but then she paused, "I'm not sure I'm supposed to go with _you_."

"Eh, don't worry about it, my little friend. I'll go and grab the comics and then bring them back to you. Maybe it's better you didn't go on the boat—you might fall, after all."

"Fall?" Dorothy wrinkled her nose.

"Well, it takes some skill to manage yourself on the boat, is all."

"I have skill," she declared.

"Well, I suppose you might be all right to come then."

"Good," she declared, and she marched forward.

Edward was on the roof of the building closest to the docks.

But he was still too far away. Overhead, the sun blazed in the cloudless sky. Down below, a variety of idlers, pleasure seekers, and yardsmen mulled about the docks. Edward saw Roy set an excited little Dorothy into a large house boat. He pointed to the cabin. "Comic books are on the table."

Dorothy pulled open the door with eager delight.

And Roy quickly untied a rope, and then standing on the edge of the boat, he gave a strong push, and the boat began to move out into the Great Lake.

Edward considered taking a massive flying leap into the air and diving in after, but it was impossible. There would be no mistaking him for a bird with so many people out and the sun shining so brightly. And so Edward jumped down three stories, landing in the alley below, and then with his hat pulled down low, he rushed to the boat house three buildings down _—_ there were people about, but none noticed his silent steps. Nor did they notice when he silently slid into the water and glided beneath the bows of the sailboats and smaller barges.

He kicked off the edge of the dock and soared through the watery currents of the lake. The sun light flashed in and out unevenly as the waves filtered the rays from above. All around him, fish and crustaceans and small amphibians fled at his presence. He was beneath the boat in less than a second.

Above Dorothy was terrified.

"Why are we here?" she demanded. "We need to go _back_." Her small brow furrowed in confusion, but then seeing that Roy made no response, her small chin began to quiver. _I should have listened to what mom always said…_

"But I thought you'd like a boat trip," Roy soothed. He brought his hand down to caress her cheek.  
 _Pretty little girl. Pretty little girl. Pretty little girl._

Dorothy flinched and shook her head. _"_ No, I want to go _back_ ," she whimpered, miniature tears in the corners of her eyes.

And then the man started to reach...

Edward flung himself up on the side of the boat opposite of the docks and smashed his fist through the cabin window. His body followed in the next instant _—_ and then he had Roy by the neck _—_ and then he had him pulled back into the water, and they plunged into the depths.

Little Dorothy's eyes seemed to cross in the instant that he ripped Roy away. She was still standing, arms spread wide, unconsciously balancing herself against the angry rocking of the boat. _The window and then the blast of white._ She saw Edward leap in through the window, but in her mind it was unfocused and mostly blurred. A _nd then that bad man. He was gone. The window gone too._ She stared at the hole in the wall of the cabin. _What had that been?_ The image again. Clearer this time but still blurred. _A creature. Wearing clothes. Definitely clothes—and all wet. Sparkly. A mermaid? A sea serpent?_

Dorothy backed away from the window with a gasp.

Feet pressed into the sponge and moss lake bed, Edward braced the thrashing man in his iron grip. He clamped the arms to the sides in order to concentrate. Roy's thoughts were easy to ignore. _Stone monster. Can't get away. Air. Air. Black—White—Pain in the throat. Air._ Edward was being far too kind in his expediency, but he had reason to hurry. He didn't want the water to mix with the blood, and even though fifty-five percent of blood was plasma, and water made up ninety-two percent of plasma _—_ he really didn't want it to pollute the mix—it'd be like watery coffee or a hot chocolate with insufficient cacao _—_ not worth the bother of a single sip, and so Edward sucked even faster and more carefully than usual, the sides of his cheeks hollowing and puffing as he sucked in the fluid.

And then he wasn't even half way done when the blood started to sour and chill _._ Roy had already drowned, he realized. The lake had stolen the oxygen from his lungs and brain before Edward's theft of blood had taken its toll _—_ and now only the anaerobic dregs remained. Edward promptly dropped the body and spit out the rancid gruel. He watched as a diaphanous, crimson cloud swirled out and dissipated into the silted lake tides.

Above, the boat rocked to and fro with the gentle push of the afternoon winds. Dorothy still crouched in the cabin, her mind fixed in state of shock, repeating the events of before over and over again. _White. Lake. Bad man. Mermaid monster._

Edward realized he had to do something. If he didn't, who knew what the effects would be? Nightmares, memory trauma… too much for young Dorothy. Thus, he made his decision. Edward pushed off the lake bed and rose to the surface. Then, he gently brought himself up to the edge of the boat, pulling himself up by his elbows so that Dorothy could see him.

She blinked in shock at the sight of him.

"Hello," he said simply.

"You're not a mermaid, are you?" she asked in a very small voice.

"No, I'm not a merman."

"Oh." _But he does sparkle… do water monsters sparkle? Dragons sometimes sparkle don't they? And he has very red eyes, too._

"Nor am I a water monster." Edward chuckled.

Dorothy, feeling exasperated with the puzzle presented, gave an impatient huff. "Well, what are you then?"

"I can't tell you, I'm afraid."

"Oh." She paused, considering him and all his features. _He's a bit creepy._ She felt a chill in her back as she examined his red eyes. _But he saved me—and from that bad man—unless he's the bad guy, now._ She eyed him more warily. "Are you going to eat me?"

Edward laughed.

"I was going to take you home, if that's alright."

She nodded. _Not a bad guy._ "But I have to keep your secret, don't I?" _Just like in a comic book._

Edward dipped his head. _"_ Yes, please. You can never tell a soul."

She held up her small hand in solemn promise. "I swear."

"Good girl—and be steadfast in your promise, because I'll know if you slip," Edward warned lightly.

Dorothy gave a little gasp.

Edward tried to smile reassuringly at her. He'd been more threatening than he'd meant to be. "I'm going to push the boat back to the harbor now—your mother is at the dock frantically looking for you.

She nodded prettily back at him and watched with barely hidden curiosity as he sunk back into the depths. Above, she gave a start when the boat began moving back to the docks.

+ll+ll+

Edward monitored Dorothy for the next two weeks. Her little mind had not forgotten about their exchange. To his distress, rather than forget about it, Dorothy had replayed it over and over again in her head, as if to memorize it. Edward didn't want to have to scare her again, but if she told someone… he'd have to leave the city immediately.

That'd be very frustrating.

It amused him that Dorothy was frustrated, too. Following the attack on her daughter, Dorothy's mother had reacted strongly to the guilt from her neglect of her eldest girl, and she had resolved to make up her inattention to Dorothy. To this end, she had kept Dorothy by her side at all times. At first, Dorothy had delighted in her mother's attentions, but then… she'd quickly grown bored of them. Dorothy had her own _private_ business after all, and her mother didn't need to have her nose up in it.

Thus, she had to wait more than a week to seize the opportunity. It came to pass one morning when her fatigued mother had fallen asleep while putting the baby down in the nursery. Seeing her chance, Dorothy had sneaked into her father's study and swiped three sheets of paper. Edward heard her thoughts in amusement as she stared down at the sheet. In her head she was playing with names.

She stabbed her pen down with evident glee when she settled on a favorite.

"Bograd the Michigan Merman."

Dorothy was very proud of her choice.

Edward groaned even as he laughed.

+ll+ll+

January 25, 2005

+ll+ll+

Half of the family lounged in the living room. Rosalie sat primly on the edge of the oversized, white sofa, one long white arm elegantly draped over the side of the upholstered piece. Sitting next to her, Emmett sat bent forward, head cocked at an angle as he watched the soccer game unfolding on the wide screen.

Jasper sat on the bench by the wall-sized window, a slightly worn Larry McMurtry title held aloft by only two fingers as he gazed thoughtfully into space. He was repeating a favored passage to himself, "The lives of happy people are dense with their own doings—crowded, active, thick. But the sorrowing are nomads, on a plain with few landmarks and no boundaries; sorrow's horizons are vague and its demands are few."

It had occurred to Jasper he hadn't seen a proper horizon in a number of years—unless you counted the Pacific Ocean—and Jasper didn't. " _You can't ride a horse in the ocean—you can only drown."_ Jasper purposefully gave a rough exhale following the thought. _As if a vampire could ride a horse…_ And then he paused, because he was trying to recall where he'd heard that bit. Not from a vampire—and not from anyone in his many vampires years… probably some old human memory.

Jasper flipped the page in his book.

 _Alice is happy_ , he thought, and he thought it with a smile. _Dense with her doings. Mile a minute. ALWAYS doing something, cleaning, shopping, designing, arranging, plotting, planning, shopping, and shopping..._

But then Jasper paused, rolling his head back and turning to glance at Edward who stood in the doorway. He had caught Edward's amusement over his words.

"I'm right, ain't I?"

"About what specifically?" Edward asked without looking up from the chart in his hand.

_She's happy._

"It's in her nature," Edward answered.

 _She hasn't always been happy._ The image in Jasper's head: _Alice spending a decade wandering from city to city, golden-eyed and lonely and guided solely by her faith in destiny._

"She has everything she needs now."

Jasper rubbed his chin while he contemplated. _She doesn't remember what it was like to be human. She's only ever known being a vampire. Her whole hang-up with being human—it's because she romanticizes it—the what-ifs, the what-could-have-beens..._

"But who among us doesn't do that?"

"Doesn't do what?" Emmett asked without breaking his gaze from the widescreen.

"Wish they were human," Edward answered.

At his words, their thoughts responded. Rosalie's were the strongest: a _small baby boy—at first with dark curly hair—and then changing and morphing into a blond-haired, blued-eyed baby girl in a white dress with silky curls and tiny white teeth and a rosebud smile._ Emmett's thoughts were much simpler: _Rosalie complete and content. Some faded memory of enjoying a hock of beef._ Jasper, meanwhile pondered guilt. _Guilt. Pain. Anguish. Raw emotion. And then freedom from the curse of the blood. Freedom from the empathy—the ability to shut out the world. Freedom from the guilt—the guilt that lusted for the blood more than his wife. Being human meant freedom from a past of wrongs, relief from the constant craving, the ability to simply be happy—to love purely. Pure, unadulterated emotion._

Yes, Edward considered, each member of his family would trade a great deal to be human again.

Rosalie's words called him back.

"I don't hate being a vampire, though—I just hate not having those human possibilities."

"You just like thinkin' you're the hottest thang on two legs, sister," Jasper chided her, though not looking up from the page he was reading.

"But she _is_ the hottest thing on two legs," Emmett reproached him indignantly, while his eyes widened playfully at Rosalie.

Rosalie smiled beautifully at her husband.

"Well, I'll say my piece just once then. I don't miss my ole digestive system—even though I may miss being able to have a proper Sunday dinner—I sure don't miss having to piss or shit. I don't miss disease and those honking sneezes or hacking coughs or fungal feet. I like that my skin can fend off my enemies," Jasper finished, holding his arm out and displaying his many scars.

Emmett frowned at Jasper. He was pretty sure he'd enjoyed taking a long and lengthy whiz as a human.

Rosalie chimed in next. "Oh, God, _of course_. Teenage boys and their squawky voices and then the old men who bray like fat donkeys—" Her noise upturned derisively. Then, a memory. _Last week. Tuesday night. Passing a bar in Seattle, where a pile of drunks, warm from their liquor, had been sitting on the outside steps. They had hollered after her. "Sugar hips!" "Pretty girl!" "Hot lady!" and then in a lower voice, one of them had coughed, "candy cunt." And then they'd all laughed with their collective sense of inebriated humor._

_Rosalie had turned on her heel at the final comment._

_Turned and stared._

_Meeting each of them in the eye._

" _Apologize," she had ordered._

_The men has stared and gaped for only a fragment of a second before a chorus of "Sorry" and "No harm intended" and "Pardon" sputtered forth from their shocked faces._

Rosalie leaned back in her chair. _No, truth be told, there are certain aspects to being a vampire that I cherish…_

Edward didn't have to look at Jasper to know that his jaw was locked and his brows, furrowed. Jasper was thinking about Maria, Mexico, and feeling the most inhuman he had ever felt. Edward had seen the memory before: _a "scavenging run" to equip the newborn vampires for their next battle. Cholera season had hit Monterrey, and they had attacked the mission hospital during the night. The plague would be blamed for the night's victims. Jasper's job was to control the newborns—to keep them from unnecessary bloodshed, to focus them strictly on the requirements of the mission._

 _The night had gone well, and once he had been satisfied that the newborns would behave themselves, Jasper had gone to choose one for himself. He had found her in the back—curled into the corner of her bed._ _When he had entered, she had given a sigh of relief._ ¿Qué paso? ¿Quién se murió? _she begged, but then she had quieted as a wave of Jasper's calm had soothed away her fear._

_And then Jasper had seen her—really seen her. Despite her years, she was so tiny, and her sunny complexion was complimented by full lips and wide set eyes. There was something about her expression—so lively and sweet. Jasper thought her beautiful, and it dawned on him that for the first time since his becoming a vampire, he wanted to keep a human. He wanted to change this one._

_So he sat down beside her. In the dark, he could see her furiously blinking as she tried to make him out, and then he felt her subtle awe as her mind deciphered his features. She was still wary though—but Jasper could easily fix that. He just had to share his ability. He sent the full weight of it her way. And then she had shivered in anticipation—with intrigue and pleasure at the presence of her handsome visitor. He brushed his fingers through her hair first, pushing it behind her shoulders. Her breathing had increased at that. The scent of the blood pounding through her veins was distracting…_

_Jasper had brushed his lips ever so softly against her neck as moved to find the spot…_

_When his teeth cut her flesh, she had whimpered._

Jasper had to use every last ounce of control not to drain every last drop, and he had used her—used her fear and confusion—he had mingled it with his own. Fear over her not surviving this. Fear over him being too weak.

_And then… he had done it._

_He gave a single swipe of his tongue, sealing the wound and the venom inside, and then he pulled away, licking the red off of his lips._

_But then the door had swung open._

**_Maria._ **

_It was like she knew everything._

_She snapped the girls' neck in the next second._

" _No dallying," she spat._

_And then she left the room._

_Jasper had held the dead girl in his arms._

Edward had left the room long before Jasper's memory had finished, and yet he couldn't drop the connection—though he tried. It would have been like trying to ignore someone screaming in the center of the room. Just not possible. Thus, Edward hit the play button on his sound system, and lay back on his bed trying to think about anything but Jasper's memory or Tanya or Bella or the other troubling features in his life—and yet, his mind seemed to be locked on the downward spiral.

How he, too, wished he wasn't a vampire.

He wished he wasn't the alpha on the blood-sucking chain. What a privilege, was it not? As a vampire, he stood above mosquitoes, vampire bats, ticks, and leeches... He wished he wasn't hard like stone—and even though his body moved and functioned—more like coral than stone—he thought he'd give up some of the hardness to be at least slightly organic. He wished he didn't want to drink blood. He wished he didn't hear thoughts.

But then there was the one person, whose thoughts he couldn't hear…

Bella was human.

Edward would never be human.

And _nothing_ would ever change either.

+ll+ll+

February 1, 2005 – Port Angeles, Washington

+ll+ll+

Bella wore a white eyelet shirt beneath a corduroy jacket. Normally, Edward did not care to notice what human females wore—most of them walked around practically naked, anyway, and yet, Edward was having a trying time not noticing Bella's shirt. Through the tiny eyelets, he could see the tiny soft hairs against her creamy skin, even through the shadow of the fabric. To normal eyes, the shirt might even be called modest—just not to a fixated male vampire. Then, to make matters worse, Bella had arched her shoulders back, and then one hand had reached across to tug on the end of her sleeve, pulling off the jacket. When she finished, she folded it carefully at her side.

A dozen eyelets became a dozen dozen eyelets.

Even as a vampire, Edward thought he deserved an Oscar for keeping his expression impassive.

The problem was that Edward couldn't _not_ notice Bella. He noticed everything about Bella. He had already mentally logged a list for this session: a faded bruise just above her right elbow, six less eyelashes than the week before, a dry patch of skin on her forearm. And of course he noticed the obvious, too.

The blood.

Siren and wild— _per usual._  
And her _long ivory_ neck.

 _Focus_.

 _Focus_ , he repeated to himself.

Focus on the _conversation_.

"Tell me about your schoolmates. Who do you talk to?"

"A few people."

"Could you be specific?" he prodded.

"A few people I sit with at lunch... Angela—Angela Webber. She's nice. Then, Jessica Stanley, she's... um, bubbly? And then there's Lauren—and Samantha." She shifted uncomfortably in her chair as she mentioned the final two.

Edward jotted the names down on his note pad—though he wouldn't have a problem remembering them. "The last two—you don't like them?" Edward inferred.

Bella tilted her head to the side, lips gently pursed. "We don't have much in the way of common interests."

"What are they interested in, that you're not?"

Bella's eyes seemed to be examining the paneling on the ceiling. "Dumb high school stuff?"

"Be specific."

Bella looked at him with a slight grimace. "Boys and dancing and shopping."

Edward chuckled. "Boys? But you read romance novels," he pointed out with a smirk.

Bella frowned at him. "It's different. It's a game to them."

"And you don't like the games?"

"I do not."

"Well, who at school do you have the most in common with?"

Bella pursed her lips and trailed her finger along her chin thoughtfully. "Probably, Angela."

"How so?"

"She's just... nice—not loud or showy. She doesn't pry or assume, and she has responsibilities at home as well. She has two little brothers."

"What are your responsibilities at home?"

"I cook, clean, do laundry. The usual."

Edward jotted down her list, and then looked up. "What happens if you don't do them?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you punished?"

Bella snorted. "No, of course not."

"But you still do them?"

"If I don't manage the house, Charlie tries to help," she muttered wearily.

"You do it better?"

"Before I came, Charlie lived off of canned beans, diner food, and pizza."

"Being so responsible is admirable, but have you ever considered that you should be out having fun—engaging in what many consider normal teenage activity?"

"But it's only fun if you enjoy it."

"Well, what about your books? Even Austen's characters, they enjoyed themselves."

"They devoted themselves to their families and to their self-improvement."

"But they did enjoy themselves," he offered.

"They were part of aristocratic England. Certain habits were expected for young women," she countered.

"One might say that young women today are still generally expected to do similar things."

"Maybe, but even Austen's characters rebelled against social expectations," Bella argued.

"And yet they married."

"They didn't just 'marry.'" Bella's jaw clenched, her lips stiffened in a full pout.

"Well, what would you call it?"

"Falling in _love_!" she declared aghast. Bella's heart rate had skyrocketed, and she was breathing faster and deeper.

Edward had to use every ounce of willpower not to chuckle. After centering himself, he moved on to the next question, because there was something else that was nagging at him. "You've talked about the girls in your school, but you haven't mentioned the boys?"

Bella's head shot up suddenly. "Are you suggesting that _I_ seek out romance?" she asked incredulously.

"I didn't suggest—"

But Bella continued on, "—would solve everything wouldn't it? But then you're my 'therapist,' and you must know that since I have no core relationships besides a loopy mom and mute dad, so by default I must be at risk to become one of 'those girls' who are utterly and completely obsessed with some Don Juan roguish type, who will drop me the moment I give up the goods!"

Edward stared quietly at her for a second longer than normal. Bella had a _temper_. "You... just... You aren't one of 'those girls,' Bella."

Bella refused to look at him. "Of course not—they're not doomed to live their life as some deranged old spinster cat lady."

"You like cats?" He smiled at the odd image of Bella owning a cat.

"I don't dislike them."

"And why do you say you're doomed? Do boys never pay attention to you?" he asked evenly, but internally his curiosity burned.

Bella blushed a deep scarlet. "Sometimes," she whispered, again not looking at him.

Edward had to pull his hand back from the edge of the desk—he was gripping it too hard—and he had only just realized that it was seconds from cracking. Yet, despite his tension, his face remained cool and impassive. "Tell me about the boys." He emphasized the word " _boys_." He would not consider that some of them might physically be older than him.

"They're acquaintances."

Edward wanted to ask another question. A thousand, million, zillion questions. He said nothing, however. If he asked anything now... he would be obvious.

"Do you ever wish you were like them—'those girls?'?"

"How do you mean?"

"Do you ever wish that you were an average seventeen year-old?"

"I think my mother would have killed me if I was ever so boring as to be called 'average.'"

"But do you wish you were more like them? Do you wish you had friends your own age?"

"We're all limited in some way. We can't be what we aren't."

"But do you really know who you are?"

"I think I know what I want to be."

And not for the first time, Edward wondered who was counseling who. He gave a conspicuous glance at the clock, even though he already knew the time.

"Time's up, Bella."

She stood. She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, and her expression was so earnest…

But then she flushed, looked down at her hands, and whispered, "See you next time, Dr. Cullen." Then, she pulled open the door and headed down the hall.

Edward listened as her footsteps grew fainter, but then—Margaret. In the lobby, Margaret was sobbing into a fistful of tissues. Waiting nervously in the seat across from her, Charlie Swan stood in total confusion as he waited for his daughter to show.

It would be a few more minutes. Bella had taken a detour to the bathroom.

Charlie chanced a glance back at Margaret—she was still sobbing.

Edward gave a sigh as he heard the reason. _Zinny had died. Zinny, her husband's favorite cat._

Charlie was trying to make the best of the situation. "Everything okay, miss?" he inquired helplessly.

Margaret peeked up through her tears. She noticed his uniform first. "Oh, I'm sorry, Officer… It's just… Oh!" She failed to suppress the choking sob that erupted from her chest.

"Nothing to be sorry about. I saw you were upset, and I—"

"—being a gentleman. You're very kind," she insisted through her tissue. "It's just that my hus—I mean—it's just that my cat died." _So embarrassing—probably got snot all over my face, and the nice man…_

Charlie looked on helplessly. Edward felt his compassion alongside his sense of duty to be of service. "Well, do you think you'll want another cat?"

Margaret waved her hand dismissively. "I don't like cats."

Charlie looked very confused.

"She wasn't _my_ cat—she was my…" Margaret took a deep breath, "She was my late husband's."

Charlie nodded in understanding, and Edward perceived compassion as the overwhelming tenor of his thoughts.

"Well, do you think you'll get another pet? You could probably get a pup from the pound down the street," Charlie offered.

"You mean a puppy?"

"Well, sure."

"I always wanted a dog," Margaret mused and then she gritted her teeth while smirking slightly. _Henry never wanted a dog. "A dog would upset Zinny!" he'd said._ She sniffed. _Henry just'd always liked the fact that Zinny loved him best—probably why Zinny died, really. Damn cat missed the old guy…_ Another tear trickled down her cheek.

"Well, dogs are good things," Charlie professed somewhat awkwardly.

Bella came in the room then. "Ready to go dad?" she asked as she walked in. She did a double take when she saw Margaret.

Charlie gave Bella a nod before turning back to Margaret. "You take care, Miss…?"

"Call me, Maggie, please." Maggie looked up shyly from her tissue.

"Charlie Swan." He held out his hand. Margaret reached forward and lightly shook it.

And then they split ways, Bella and Charlie heading out to the parking lot and Maggie marching determinedly down the hall.

Edward was not surprised at her words when she sat down in his office.

"I've decided I want a dog," she declared.

+ll+ll+

February 8, 2005 – Port Angeles, Washington

+ll+ll+

They were discussing Bella's childhood with Renee.

"I wasn't really the daughter she wanted."

"She wanted a different daughter?"

"She put me in ballet lessons—so what do you think?"

Edward laughed. Imagining a tiny Bella attempting to do pirouettes amused him to no end. "But perhaps you were the daughter that she needed?"

Bella nodded easily. "At the time, yes, but staying wouldn't have worked out in the long run."

"If you couldn't stay with her, why could Phil? How are you different from Phil?"

Bella smirked, but then her expression cleared, as if an unexpected thought had struck her, and she spoke thoughtfully, "I never really questioned it, but I guess I intuitively knew… There are very different sorts of temperaments in the world. My mother could never be kept by anything for a lifetime—no matter the extent of her love and devotion. I suppose in some way I always knew that—as a child I was constantly growing and changing—she got to buy me new clothes—but as an adult, I always feared she would lose interest in me, that she would wander off, and though not meaning to, she would forget. When she found Phil, I saw something click—some trigger I never knew she had—and then they were married and she was happy, and I just—I knew."

"You knew what?"

"It was time for me to go."

"To Charlie?"

Bella gave a sharp nod. "It made sense to spend some quality time with him."

"Quality time?" Edward repeated the phrase back to her with amusement.

"Yes…" A crease formed between her brows as she trailed off.

"Wasn't it very convenient to come to Forks?"

"I love my dad."

"But you two don't talk much."

The crease in Bella's brow deepened. Bella continued on like she hadn't heard Edward. "Charlie's devotion isn't about talking or grand gestures." She gave a single, firm nod. "He's steadfast."

"Do you think he still loves your mom?"

"I know he does."

"But you said that he doesn't talk much, so how do you know?"

"He still keeps pictures—of their wedding, my birth, everything—out in the living room. The only other furnishings are the couch, the end table, and the television. Charlie's obvious that way."

"Why do you think he still loves her?"

Bella grimaced. "The mere experience of my mother's love for a two year period has been sufficient to keep his loyalty for greater part of two decades. Love for him is a reason to do anything, to be of any service, to work at the same old job and live in the same old town for all of his existence. And even now, after every final drop has left—he still clings on to it."

"How do you feel about that?"

"About what?"

"Charlie still having feelings for Renee. How does that make you feel?"

"I guess, I always wondered why he never stopped her—why he didn't drag her back—why he didn't fight for us. I used to be angry about that, but I realized several years ago—probably around the time that I started managing our bills—that Charlie realized it was futile. He knew that if she didn't leave then, she would leave eventually, and that simply was enough to let her go."

"So you let her go?"

"I did."

"Do you ever feel the way you think your mom felt?"

"You mean trapped?"

"Yes, do you?"

"I'm not sure."

"Do you feel trapped in Forks?"

"I don't like the weather or the lack of good bookstores… but I guess, I like it more than I thought I would."

"What in particular?"

"It's a general sort of thing, being with Charlie, my new school. It's better in little ways—and I didn't expect to, but… I like therapy… with you." She looked down determinedly at her hands as she said it.

Edward had to steel himself—remind himself: _you are her therapist._ He spoke lightly, "That's good to hear, Bella."

She didn't say anything but kept her head ducked low, as if trying to hide her face behind her hair.

"So, you like Forks, but you still miss Arizona?"

"Yes."

"You miss your mom?"

"I do."

"Do you feel the gap?"

"What gap?"

"Of missing your best friend—your mother?"

"Not as much as I thought I would. I would feel bad about that, but…"

"But what?"

"But I know she's happy."

Edward stared thoughtfully at Bella. "Did it ever occur to you that your parents ought to be in therapy, too?"

Bella smiled.

"Well, unlike me, my parents actually have friends outside the nineteenth century."

"The twenty-first even," Edward added playfully.

"Not to mention the twentieth, lucky fools."

Edward couldn't help but note that his family covered at least four centuries… But Bella was in the current century, and she needed to make the most of that.

"Bella, I think you should put some effort into some new relationships."

Bella shrugged.

"Would you make an effort at school?"

"Perhaps." Bella gave a subtle nod and a long sigh. "I just want my friendships to happen naturally."

"How do you mean, 'naturally?'"

"Just someone I can really talk to…" She stared at him. She stared in a way that few humans could.

Edward stared down at his note pad. He made a show of "Bella, I think our time's—"

Bella interrupted, "Why are your eyes gold?"

Edward watched her carefully. "That's their color…"

"Your eyes looked black last week."

Edward spoke with forceful confidence. "Oh, it must have been from my glasses."

"You took off your glasses today but were reading."

Edward smiled patiently at her. "I don't wear them for reading. I'm nearsighted."

Bella's hands clutched her shoulders and her cheeks flushed. She dropped her gaze and let her eyes find her feet. "Sorry—must have been a trick of the light." She shrugged, if a bit stiffly, and then she stood. "Time is up. I'd better get going."

+ll+ll+

After Bella left, Edward leaned far back in his seat with a deep sigh. Were he human, he thought he'd down a liter of whiskey, but since he was a vampire… he might have to go on the rampage and drown a few musk deer.

Something to deal with the stress.

Bella noticing his eyes was... problematic. Why did he always get the feeling that Bella knew so much more than she ever said? And then why did a part of him actually like that? Why did he want her to _know_ him?

He gave a long sigh. Bella could never truly know him. Not for his sake. Not for her sake. Not for his family's sake. Edward had more than his own secrets to keep. Bella knowing him—knowing his secrets was more dangerous than he wished to contemplate.

When Edward returned home, he didn't go out to hunt. Instead he went straight to his piano and began plucking at the keys. He let his thoughts guide the lilting melody… thoughts of eyelet blouses and stumbled pirouettes and dead cats and wanking teenage boys… and then he stopped, thumping his hands down on to the keys, the thundering disharmony causing the entire house to quiet suddenly. Not that Edward cared. It was just that he had a hard time forgetting that certain dreams weren't meant to be.

_"The sorrowing are nomads, on a plain with few landmarks and no boundaries; sorrow's horizons are vague and its demands are few."_

Edward picked out the keys for _Für Elise_ to fit his latest mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Art Noveau, (1910-1930): A naturalistic style characterized by intricately detailed patterns and curving lines and elaborate ornamentation. Designs were balloon-shaped, bentwood and curved pieces of wood. Fabric may have been brocade, damask, leather, linen, mohair, tapestry, velvet. Hardware material included brass and chrome and motifs of the day were floral designs and foliage.  
> 2\. Courbet – a dark murky green oil paint hue. Courbet refers to Jean Désiré Gustave Courbet ( 1819 – 1877) a French Realist painter whose subjects ranged from vaginas to nice landscapes.  
> 3\. Krazy Kat & Ignatz the Mouse (1913 - 1944): Krazy Kat is a comic strip by George Herriman . Krazy nurses an unrequited love for Ignatz the mouse; however, Ignatz despises Krazy and constantly schemes to throw a brick at his head, which Krazy takes as a sign of affection. Despite the slapstick simplicity of Krazy Kat's general premise, it was the detailed characterization, combined with Herriman's visual and verbal creativity, which made Krazy Kat one of the first comics to be widely praised by intellectuals and treated as serious art.  
> 4\. Carl Panzram (1891-1930): Panzram was an American serial killer. According to his own words, Panzram confessed to have murdered 21 human beings, committed thousands of burglaries, and last but not least raped more than 1,000 male human beings. For his crimes, he said, "I am not in the least bit sorry." Arrested in 1928, Pazram was hanged in 1930. When asked by the executioner if he had any last words, Panzram barked, "Yes, hurry it up, you Hoosier bastard! I could hang ten men while you're fooling around!"  
> 5\. The quote comes from: McMurty, Larry. Some Can Whistle,(Simon & Schuster: New York) 2002, p. 368. Larry McMurty is the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of the Western epic Lonesome Dove.  
> 6.Für Elise:popular name of the bagatelle in A minor, marked poco moto, by Ludwig van Beethoven, composed in 1810. The song is public domain so you can just Google if you wanna listen.  
> 7\. Notes on Jasper's accent. Since 90% of the reviews are on this topic, I wanted to say that we're going with him being from a homestead-working-middle class Houston-area/East Texas family. We assume because a. he enlisted early—thus he clearly didn't have a plantation to manage back home b. unless he sat on a wagon for weeks and weeks; he probably was closer to the action when he enlisted (probably - there is leeway here) c. most of the Civil War battles in Texas occurred along the coast up from Corpus Christi to the Texas-Louisiana border. Moreover, unlike Emmett and Alice (who are also both from the Tennessee and Mississippi, respectively), Jasper spent his early vampires years in Mexico and Texas, where the other vampires probably either spoke Spanish or had a twang themselves. Finally, both Emmett and Alice immediately moved to the north and probably adopted northern accents almost immediately. Education and geography would have likely eliminated their accents. Then there's the simple fact that in Twilight Stephenie Meyer says Jasper has an accent and the others don't. Done.


	4. Beauty Hath Fangs Like a Rose Hath Thorns

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March 8, 1929

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Edward sat at the piano, Beethoven's _Piano Sonata No. 14 in C Sharp_ flowing effortlessly from the glossy instrument in front of him. Around him, a "cocktail" party ( _sans_ _the cocktails_ ) ensued: older women adorned with pearl necklaces and hair tightly ensnared in shiny chignons chatting over French fashion; younger women sporting swishy bobs, hidden cigarettes, and hiked hemlines; businessmen with trimmed mustaches puffing away on Cuban cigars; and servants gliding along silently with silver trays of hors d'oeuvres and sparkling punch in crystal champagne flutes.

The hostess of the assemblage, a Madam Ross, was currently focused on Edward. She dearly wanted to urge him to take up a more cheerful tune; however, between the grace of Edward's playing and the eerie chill she felt when nearing him... she could not bring herself to state her preference.

Edward played on.

After much time in solitude, he had realized a silly truth about himself. He was lonesome. Despite his constant access to human thought, he craved interaction. Or maybe it was baser than that—perhaps simply vanity—he wanted to hear thoughts about himself—thoughts other than his own, and he wanted the opportunity to respond to them. Also, he felt the social behavior to be useful.

The socializing provided a cover. The Rosses, who lived in the suites across from him had developed any number of theories about their hermit neighbor. After all, how could they not? The piano intrigued them. His beauty attracted them. His nightly schedule scandalized them. His solitude offended them. Naturally, they suspected him to be either a Capone bimbo or an errant flaming youth. Thus, when a "chance" meeting in the hallway came to pass, Edward informed them he was a music student, so they felt justified in assuming the latter theory.

Thus, the Rosses had told all their friends, "Poor fellow next door—no family to speak of—and yes, so unfortunate that such a well-settled young man should be addicted to the _hooch_." In an act of "benevolence," they had insisted that Edward attend one of their soirees—and then another—and so on and so forth until he could be called a regular on their social calendar.

His new social behavior had also proved a fine tool to hunt down "prospects." Immorality flowered as easily among the wealthy as the poor; the rich merely kept their skeletons better hidden—though not from Edward. Edward used the ritzy parties to seek out the despicable: Terrence Gibson had murdered his young wife for her fortune. Joseph Eyre ran an opium line from Philadelphia to Chicago—if his messengers showed up late, he slit their throats without a second thought. Laurence and Mary Brown operated a brothel which tricked poor, young girls by offering them "a shop girl" job. After Laurence "broke them in," Mary would sell their services. They kept them locked in the basement otherwise.

Edward had killed the villains one by one.

Otherwise, present company represented some of the blandest, superficial, and affected conversation to be had in all of Chicago. The Rosses were one of Chicago's many Noveau Rich—businessman and industrialists enriched by the booming stock market. By all accounts they considered themselves to be quite liberal. Their daughter, Theresa, was allowed a great deal of free reign, after all—and if they compared themselves to the old establishment, _Victorian-minded snobs_... well, they were certainly modern. They saw no hypocrisy in the fact that Mrs. Ross belonged to the Women's Christian Temperance Union while Mr. Ross served out shine to his favored associates in the back room. Nevertheless, money united them all—money from low unemployment and a market which kept going up and up and up...

Edward thought them a pack of fat heads but knew there would be no convincing them otherwise—not that Edward would have cared to make the effort.

He had been at the piano for nearly a half an hour when he really noticed her. Her blood caught his attention first: cinnamon and sandalwood, warmth and luxury. Emily Reece—from the suite two floors down—had newly returned from a stint with relatives. Edward had wondered about her. She had left her family just before he had obtained his apartments. That had been nearly a year ago. He had been unsure about the reason for her departure. Her sister had died only a few weeks before her abrupt leaving, so grief was a possible cause—but Edward had also wondered if she'd been another incautious flapper shipped away due to a hushed pregnancy.

But now, from her thoughts, Edward found no evidence of a pregnancy—her thoughts remained focused on her sister. _She would have shone here._ And Edward was surprised to find jealously mixed in with the grief. The image of her sister, silvery blond, willowy and graceful, soft-voiced, and elegant, seemed to break the girl's heart in both love and hate—and then there were flashes of other moments: _Ann talking over Emily at party just like this one, making a joke at her expense, and then Emily's shamed tears falling over a balcony_ —and then that vision cut off. Emily's mind frantically grasped for other memories: _Ann teaching her to embroider a tricky pattern, Ann sneaking down to the grocer's with her when they were supposed to be practicing their French, Ann curled up with her beside the stove as they took turns reading ridiculous novels into the midnight hours..._

She had to wipe away a tear mischievously brewing in the corner of her eye: _love and hate and guilt and grief._

She turned suddenly, and even as Edward naturally avoided her eyes, he could not avoid her thoughts.

 _No. 14—I wish he'd stop—doesn't matter how fine he is—probably the third butter-and-egg-man the Rosses have fawned over this year. It's of no matter to me whether he's handsomer than Clark._ But then she paused and pushed her fingers out indecorously behind her back so that they gave a satisfying "crack." _But, yes, Ann would have flirted..._

And Edward saw another image of Ann... swirling around the dance floor with a handsome youth—and felt Emily's jealousy raging raw. The music in Emily's mind wasn't what had been playing in the room, though. The song was _Pavane pour une infante défunte._ The composer, Maurice Ravel, had called it the "Pavane for a Dead Princess" after he played it for his patron, the Princesse de Polignac—and Edward saw that Emily saw it that way as well—not for an unknowing infant but for the highest demonstration of female perfection. She saw her sister moving slowly, gracefully, and perfectly through every step.

When she glanced at Edward again, he did not look away.

And she gave a barely audible gasp. _Not..._ _human_ was her thought.

Edward brought his gaze back to the piano. He really did need to be more careful...

Mrs. Ross chose that moment to approach Emily. "Emily, my dear! Norma and Scarlet are crowded in the parlor pulling out the Ouija board—would you care to join them?"

Emily noticeably paled at Mrs. Ross's suggestion.

Mrs. Ross threw her hand over her mouth. "Oh, my dear girl, I'm so very sorry! You must think me so thoughtless." She beseeching clutched Emily's shoulders with both hands.

Emily shook her head fervently. "Not at all."

"No really—your sister—"

They both cringed.

Emily broke the silence with a smile, though her voice was weak. "I'd be happy to join them, Mrs. Ross. Please don't feel poor on my behalf," she insisted in a soft voice.

"You are such a lovely dear." Mrs. Ross smiled sympathetically at her.

"Is there anyone else you'd wished to invite? Three is a small number."

"Well, I'd considered inviting young Edward to join you all, but since he's so caught up at the piano..."

Edward expected Emily to balk at the suggestion, but instead Emily's thoughts became more determined—her curiosity—and something else... overcoming her reluctance and fear. "I'll invite him. It would be rude not to, wouldn't it?" She finished with a sharp nod.

Mrs. Ross eyed her skeptically. "You are very kind." She looked over at Edward again. "He is a dashing fellow, though, isn't he? Just not very talkative..."

"Well, a proper invitation might assist in bringing him out of his shell," Emily offered with a smile.

Mrs. Ross gave her an indulgent grin. "It might just." She gave a final wink at Emily before rushing over to a Ms. Talmad who seemed to have spilt some punch on her new dress. _Good Housekeeping says that a bit of soda water should do the trick..._

Emily took a deep breath before she approached Edward.

Edward waited until the completion of the song before turning to face her.

She held out her hand. "I'm Emily Reece, from downstairs. We haven't met."

"I'm Edward Masen, and no, we have not met. Pleased to meet you, Emily." He shook her hand quickly, but he saw as well as felt her shiver. Emily looked fixedly down at his hand, unable to meet his eyes, but still her determination did not fade but instead gained momentum. She was interested in... his _otherness_. Edward caught another flash of something about her _sister_ and the _guilt_ —but then nothing.

Emily went ahead with the invitation. "A few of us were going to make use of the Rosses' Ouija board. Would you care to join us?" she asked politely, but Edward felt her hesitance, the prickle on the back of her neck telling her that something was wrong about him.

"A séance?" Edward asked in amusement, and also because he felt a need to tease soft and earnest young woman, if only slightly.

Scarlet nodded, "If it's not your idea of entertainment, you shouldn't feel any obligation to—"

Edward cut her off with the wave of a hand. "I would be most obliged," Edward spoke formally and stood.

Emily led the way into the drawing board. Sitting beneath a low-hanging Tiffany lamp, Norma and Scarlet were arguing over the Ouija board.

Norma was questioning whether or not a séance was the best amusement when Emily had recently lost her sister. "Scarlet, I really don't think this is the best—"

Scarlet cut off Norma, "Oh, Norma! Do you always have to be such a bluenose?"

They stopped when they saw Edward and Emily.

"Oh, and who is this, Emily?" Scarlet asked, raising her brow and batting her lashes coquettishly.

Emily made the introductions. "Norma, Scarlet, please meet Edward Masen."

"How do you do, ladies?" Edward tipped his head in their direction. He looked them over with a sense of misplacement. It occurred to him that though he was physically seventeen, were he still human, he'd be just short of ten years their senior now. In fact, Mrs. Ross was closer in real age to him than these young co-eds—co-eds who were staring at him with rapt fascination. Knowing that these girls had been in bows while he'd been preparing to go to war... and now they were his own age.

It was odd.

Meanwhile, the girls were looking him over. Scarlet seemed to only notice his beauty, while Norma seemed almost immediately on edge, finding herself fearful, flustered and yet intrigued by him as well. _Surreally beautiful. Like a picture star-but even nicer._ As if to distract herself, Norma spoke to Emily, "Do have a seat—we've gotten it all ready."

"That's right! Down on your keisters!"

Emily sat down, seeming to ignore Scarlet's lack of decorum, and Edward followed her example.

Emily eyed Scarlet carefully. "You've been drinking!" she hissed at her friend.

With a mischievous side glance at Edward, Scarlet leaned forward and grinned at Emily. "I mighta tipped a few in the back when no one was looking—mighta." She grinned again.

Norma groaned, before shyly turning to Edward. "Ignore Scarlet—she's out on the roof at most parties."

"No worries," he answered. He smiled carefully at all of them, being sure not to show any teeth.

The resulting thoughts from the girls were something of a tailspin. _Fucking bee's knees on six-two frame... makes me wanna be a chippy and get up close and_ — _dear God, I'm glad I went Coco instead of ice queen like Emily..._ Scarlet's thoughts tended toward the lude and shallow, and between her heart beat and the er... scents emanating from her, Edward felt a bit out of place.

 _Like a fairy tale, really—tall and gorgeous and rich from what the Rosses say_ — _but then why would he ever think a second thought about a plain Jane like me..._ Norma doubted herself.

Emily seemed to be the only one unaffected by his physique. She was still focused on figuring him out. _That voice, that otherworldly voice_ — _like out of a dream_ — _or a nightmare._ Oddly, Edward noted, she didn't seem to distinguish between the two.

"Let's play!" Scarlet declared, fluttering her fingers on the Ouija board.

"I'm really not so sure..." Norma trailed, eyeing Emily with worry.

"I'm in." Emily put her hands next to Scarlet's.

Norma eyed her in confusion.

She gave a long exasperated sigh as she looked at the two girls. "I want to try and contact Ann."

The two other girls collectively gasped, Norma in horror and Scarlet in excitement.

Norma reached across the small table and grasped Emily's hand. "Emily—you can't—that's just—"

"I want to." Her jaw was set.

Norma seemed to be at a complete loss, but Scarlet made up her mind then. "Why not? Emily needs some closure, so why not? She should be able to talk to her sister if she wants to!"

"Edward, what's your opinion?" Norma asked from beneath her lashes.

"I have no objection."

Silence ensued for a moment longer than was comfortable—and then Scarlet, who was undeniably the most comfortable in her lackadaisical state, put her hands on the planchette and muttered, "Well, let's send a holler to the spirits, shan't we?"

Emily nodded and joined Scarlet by placing her fingers on the planchette. Norma continued to fret but followed. Edward carefully placed his much cooler fingers on the wood piece as well.

Scarlet spoke then. "I am the medium?" The two girls nodded. Scarlet continued. "Before we open ourselves to the spirits in this session, I remind you that only positive energies and thoughts toward a higher good are welcome. Negative energies are not welcome. Do we all agree?"

"Agree."

"Agree."

Edward mused over whether or not being a vampire counted as a "negative" energy. Either way, he thought the whole business a farce.

"Agree," he joined in.

"We commence." Scarlet turned to Emily, and in a low and deep voiced intoned, "You will ask the first question, Emily. To Whom do you wish to speak? To what spirit do you wish to join energies?"

Emily spoke in a low whisper, "Are you there, Ann?"

Scarlet repeated her question in a louder, though deeper voice. "Is the spirit of Ann Reese present?"

Edward frowned in Scarlet's direction. Her thought patterns had changed. The shine had clearly been affecting her before, but now... Edward thought she might be hypnotized.

And the planchette began to move.

Edward was having a hard time following their thoughts—mostly because of Scarlet—but also because Emily's thoughts were in turmoil. Fractured memories and shadowed thoughts and flashes of Ann's face: _Beautiful. Sneering. Superior. Loving. Enraged. Tearing and fading..._ Norma's fingers barely touched the planchette. She felt very skeptical but couldn't ignore the draw of the mystery.

The planchette moved to the "yes."

"She's here," gasped Scarlet, and her thoughts seemed to steady for a moment as she gazed at Edward, _He looks like a spirit himself, doesn't he?,_ before returning and focusing on the board. "Next question goes to you, Norma."

"Do you miss us?"

Again, the tear-shaped disk began to move—Edward thought Emily might be pushing it—but her thoughts were too jumbled—and also she was wondering if Scarlet was pushing it, so...

It stopped halfway between two and three.

"Two or three?" Scarlet asked in confusion.

"The number of people she's missing..." Emily trailed off, no longer looking at the board.

"You can't miss a half of a person." Norma shook her head dismissively.

"Maybe, she's unsure," Edward offered.

Scarlet leaned back lazily into the couch cushions. "Maybe it's the _newcomer_. I think she might like you, Edward."

Another wicked grin and thoughts of touching him, of him meeting her in a back room, slamming the door closed, and pulling him toward her...

Edward had to repress a shudder at the image. The very idea... that she could want to, and even if he wanted to—which he did _not_ , especially with _her_ —his control was not what it had been.

"I don't think that's it," Emily muttered wryly and sadly. _She hates me._ And once again, Edward saw Ann's face in her mind, bright and furious and—the memory broke off. Emily made an effort to clear her face, because Norma was looking worriedly at her. "It's just that I doubt the physical realm is of much interest to the spirits."

 _Bull-fucking shit._ Scarlet stole another glance at Edward, before piping up, "My turn?" Scarlet looked excitedly about the table.

"How'd you die?" she asked, peering anxiously down at the planchette.

Beside him, Emily froze but sat still.

The planchette moved among the letters.

R. A. I. L.

"Oh my god! Oh my god!" Scarlet threw her hands up in a frenzy. "Rail—she fell off a railing!"

Norma rolled her eyes at Scarlet. "For Pete's sake, Scarlet, everyone knows that," Norma reminded her, before jerking her head over toward Emily, who sat statue still.

In Emily's head, a conversation was unfolding:

"Y _ou didn't have to say that! Why did you have to belittle me—again?"_

_"I did no such thing."_

_"You don't even care."_

_"Nor do you—stuffing your face with tea cakes in the corner—it's no wonder Clark likes me better."_

_"This isn't about Clark! You stole my hat—I spent the hour searching for it and missed dinner."_

_"The cloche hat looks better on me—your face is too round for it."_

_Emily steeled herself before turning on her heel and marching back inside._

"Edward's turn?" Norma asked.

Edward stared thoughtfully down at the planchette. He wanted to hear the rest of the memory—but he didn't want to be obvious about it.

"Are you at peace?" he asked softly.

The planchette gave a jerk.

"No."

The move had come from Emily.

"My turn?" Emily asked in gasp.

"Are you sure?" Norma asked worriedly.

"Course she's sure. Otherwise, she wouldn't be asking, would she?"

"Do I have to say it aloud?"

Scarlet turned and stared thoughtfully at Emily. "I think so?" she replied uncertainly.

And then low, under her breath, Emily whispered, "Do you forgive me?"

The planchette moved, though Emily barely touched it, and the memory unfolded.

_Emily grabbing the glass._

_Emily grabbing the jar of peanuts._

_Throwing in a dash._

_Stealing some cold punch from the ice box._

_Mixing._

_Walking out to the balcony._

_Handing it to Ann._

_Watching her drink. Finding herself incapable of caring._

_Feeling cold. Feeling inhuman. Feeling insane._

_Ann choking, eyes wide and furious and accusing._

_Stumbling back._

_Flipping over the rail._

_Down and down and down._

_Emily had fled inside._

_The broken glass had covered the balcony._

The planchette settled on "no."

Edward made sure it did.

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He left the party early and strode straight across the hall to his apartments.

He didn't want to do it.

Was she really evil?

Was she a monster?

Was she not provoked?

But was he being weak?

Was he being unfair?

Was she different from the rest?

Killing a family member, was that not the worst crime? And yet the most understandable?

Emily was lovely, young, and sweet—and remorseful. That was clear.

Edward pushed the piano to the edge of its capabilities as he roared out a new Rachmaninoff piece. He played into the early hours of the morning, remembering the monsters of his past, and more than any other emotion, feeling the monster inside of himself. For as much as hated it, there was a part of him that wanted an easy excuse—that wanted her blood—ripe and sweet and...

He began playing a different song, the song from her head: _Pavane pour une infante défunte_

He only stopped his ruminations, when he heard...

The door creaked loudly as Emily hesitantly pushed it opened and slid inside. She stood for a long second with her back pressed against his front door. The party had ended hours ago. Now, she was only wearing a thin night gown—soft, white muslin that hung off her shoulders.

"Keep playing," she whispered as the door clicked shut behind her.

Edward did, but he hit the high C to audibly acknowledge her request.

She descended the stairs, stopping for a moment behind him, and then she slid down onto the bench next to him.

"I just... I heard you playing, and I knew that you knew. I knew," she whispered fervently.

Edward hit the high C again, reaching across her to do so.

Her fingers trailed along his forearm as he did so.

He took a long and deep breath at the warm life in the contact.

Emily, however, was unaware of the effects of her touch. Inside her head, she was replaying her sister's death over and over again. Ann's face in the final moments— _faith and love and trust cracked as if it were no stronger than an eggshell. Her lips turning a violent hue of lavender and her pale eyes growing red in fury as the oxygen escaped her... and then her swaying, stumbling back against the rail, flipping backwards, and disappearing..._

_Like she'd never existed._

_And Emily had been wild with righteous justice for a split second._

_Delighted in her vengeance._

_It was the next second when it all fell down..._

At his side, Emily stared down at the keys. _It all fell down._ She raised her fist in a fury. Edward could have stopped her, but he didn't. Her fist struck the white and black rows in agonized self-loathing.

The discordant notes slapped against the walls.

"Tell me that you know _what I did!"_

Edward had already stopped playing.

"Tell me!" she croaked, tears filling the corner of her eyes.

Edward opened his mouth to speak.

"Tell me, " she gasped in a low whisper.

Edward spoke slowly. "You put peanuts in her drink. She was allergic."

She nodded. _He knew. I knew he would._

"What are you?" she asked after a long pause.

Edward didn't answer her.

"You're not human, are you?"

"Do you really want to know?" he eyed her carefully. If he told her, he'd have to take her life, and he still hoped that maybe...

"I think I already know." She thought him a _demon_ —but more, _an angel of justice, an avenger of wrongs._

Edward frowned at the religious connotation. "You might be wrong on the specifics."

"But you will kill me." It was neither a question nor a demand. A statement.

"Do you think I should?"

"Yes."

Edward clutched both sides of her face, pulling her eyes to look into his red set. "I'm not sure you want that."

Though she shivered, her determination didn't waiver. "I'm sure. I can never forgive myself. I've tried."

Edward dropped his hands. "You should talk to someone," he argued.

"The head doc told me to go play like the other girls."

"Well, then he wasn't very good at his job, was he?"

She ignored that comment. "I already wrote up a note, and everything. You'll find it on my desk."

"How nice, you planned."

She ignored the sarcasm. "Would you do me a favor first, though?"

"What do you request?"

"Only a..." her voice crumpled as she grew self-conscious for the first time.

She wanted _a kiss._

She leaned towards him. "Please?" she begged in a raspy, low entreaty.

Edward, strangely enough, thought he might blush. There had been two times... one by a gray-eyed girl who had kissed him unexpectedly in a dark lit drawing room—that one had been poorly managed. The other time was by a nurse in the hospital—a young nurse. He'd been dying then, so it didn't really count. And yet now, he'd seen a million kisses. He'd felt the sensations as they rolled through the lovers' heated thoughts, sweet and tender with pecks and interlocking lips or slick and silky with an attack and retreat of tongues and tracing of teeth.

"Are you sure?" he asked. He was unsure. He knew that if he got that close to her, he'd have to bite her.

"I don't expect to wake up."

"You won't." And he meant it. He would not change her.

She gave a firm nod.

And he made to answer Emily's request. He flipped his heel over the bench so as to face her and pulled her toward him. She slid evenly across the bench, her breathing already erratic as she edged closer to him. Staring at him in a tranquil state, she murmured shyly, "You are very lovely for a someone who's agreed to kill me."

Edward thought that he could say the same about her. _Lovely._ He hadn't expected to be drawn in, but he was being drawn in. Her soft curves were warm and generous—and he had the thought that Ann had probably mocked her sister out of mutual jealousy. And her eyes. Huge and honest. And if someone had told him that she was capable of killing... he would have found it impossible to believe in this moment.

He stared down at her as she drew her face closer to him.

And then their lips met, and she gave a low, warm gasp into his mouth.

Edward had to swallow back the venom.

Control was... not _easy_.

But he wanted to make the best of this, so he continued to let his mouth move against hers, and his fingers slid into her silky bob, while his left hand trailed down the line of her waist, and then he realized...

He was slipping.

One loss of control was furthering another. Beneath him, he could feel her shivering, her mind lost to... the adrenaline, endorphins, and the relief of spirit. But there was also... He smelled her reaction from down between her legs. He was affecting her. She was brushing against him—and he couldn't take it anymore. And so he pulled his lips away from hers and trailed a tongue down her throat, across the beating pulse point. He groaned in partial defeat even as he let his teeth sink in.

One form of relief would come at the expense of another.

Before the sun rose, Edward placed Emily in her bed.

A tiny flute and a thin piece of parchment filled with cocaine sat on her desk. All excellently staged. Edward realized that she had been planning this for a while.

But that didn't assuage his own guilt.

With a final sigh and a glance at Emily's pale corpse, the monster returned to his rooms.

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February 10, 2005

+ll+ll+

Edward sat at the piano.

But he wasn't playing anything.

He realized he'd been doing that an awful lot of late—just sitting at the piano. He used to play _that_ song... He heard the keys in his mind, the high and the low, the tragedy and the dark. He almost started playing again, but then stopped himself.

But then again, he shouldn't play it—not that song. Not when he was thinking about...

_About her._

Bella becoming his "her" was dangerous. He was realizing this more and more. He couldn't just dismiss her. She didn't fade into memory or skirt offstage to give peace to his thoughts.

The only person whose thoughts he couldn't hear, and all he could do was think about _her_.

_Her._

He hit the low _A_ key.

The deep, sonorous bass filled the room.

Foreboding, _indeed_.

Alice skipped into the room then, as if the note had called her. Edward couldn't imagine a piano note less like Alice, but nevertheless he patted his hand on the bench next to him by way of invitation.

"How's Bella?"

Edward shrugged dismissively. "My patients are fine, thank you, Alice, and Bella remains safe from any savagery on my part."

"Oh, Edward," Alice groaned dramatically. "Go on and get it over with."

"Bite her?" Edward asked flatly, even though he knew that wasn't what she meant.

_Admit to yourself that you like her—that she's more than just a patient._

"She is my _patient_ , Alice."

"We'll see," she grinned from narrow eyes, and in her head Edward saw different versions of her earlier vision unfolding. _Edward clasping Bella's hand as they walked along the boardwalk. Bella curled against Edward on the couch in his office. Edward softly reading a scuffed book to Bella as they sat side by side in an over sized armchair in a cozy bookshop…_

At the wave of images, Edward felt… longing.

But longing was what he deserved.

"Stop it, Alice."

"I never see you biting her anymore!" she chimed cheerily.

Edward rolled his eyes—but then jerked his face back to Alice's, because the next image caught him off guard: _Alice and Bella arm in arm and happy—but their arms: pale, cold, and marble-hard._

"No." Edward pushed off the bench and strode to the other side of the room. "No."

"You weren't supposed to see that," Alice muttered, visibly a bit miffed.

"No. I won't do that to her—how could I even…?" He slapped his hand over his forehead.

 _Maybe it's not about what_ you _want._

Edward stopped his pacing and spun to face Alice again. "What I want?" he asked incredulously.

 _She's going to be_ my friend _!_ Alice seemed to hop in her seat.

"She's not going to be anything."

_Not a very good shrink, are you? Not going to be anything? Her self-esteem can't be that bad. Besides, you wouldn't deny me a proper friend, would you—dearest brother?_

"Alice…" Edward growled.

"Well, we'll see now, won't we?" Alice grinned delightedly, and then she eyed him in frustration. An image, _Alice asking Edward if she could meet Bella. Edward emphatically saying "NO."_ Alice gave a hissy little growl. "You are so frustrating!"

"Mind your own business."

"Not a problem." _Because Bella's my business, too._

Edward continued to frown at her.

Alice patted the piano bench next to her. _Play something for me. Please?_ She smiled sweetly at him.

Edward shook his head at her but complied anyway. He sat by her side and placed his fingers on the keys, carefully considering his options. He grinned widely when he caught the bit of inspiration and then quickly moved into playing _The Sorcerer's Apprentice._ He could just imagine Alice trying to command an army of buckets and mops—she'd think that sort of mad opera to be _fun._ Upon recognizing the song, Alice clapped gleefully and laughed at her brother's jest.

Edward continued on with the song, though, and Alice hummed along with the melody. When he pressed the final note, he turned toward her and smiled smugly. "Meddling only ever gets you into trouble, Alice."

"Oh, but Edward, you've made a mistake." She lolled her head and grinned wickedly at him.

"Oh, really?"

"You see, I'm not the apprentice—I'm the _sorcerer_."

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February 11, 2005

+ll+ll+

Edward met Ben at the basketball court as they had planned after their last appointment. Ben looked on skeptically as Edward tossed the orange ball in his direction. It gave a single bounce before Ben caught it.

"You know, man, if you wanted to really do the whole therapist-goes-and-bonds-with-the-patient thing, I could have simply brought in my Xbox. I'm much more open when I have a controller in my palm and a digital machine gun on the screen." _Oh, man. I frickin' forgot to tell Connor I wouldn't be able to meet him after school—oh, well, he'll deal. He knew mom put me up to this..._

He threw the ball back to Edward, who had to lean slightly to catch the awkward curve.

_Crud... I suck._

"And why is that?" Edward asked as he took an imperfect shot at the basket. The ball bounced off the rim and at a nearly perfect angle toward Ben.

 _Um, because talking to some therapist—even if he's not some dreary social worker type—is not the way I like to imagine my afternoons._ Outwardly, Ben shrugged. "I like my Xbox."

"Unlike basketball?"

Ben gave a withering look. "Short dudes can't jump... well, at least not very high."

"That's part of the point of this, you know."

"I figured—torture is supposed to be a part of this right? Make the short kid believe in great heights?"

"Do you really think this is torture?" Edward smirked at him. _They'd work on the "short kid" label later…_

"Eh, unconventional therapy?"

"Better," Edward smiled at him and motioned with a nod for Ben to take a shot.

"My bad. I do like to exaggerate." Ben took a shot. The ball hit the back board and then the rim and looped a few times before finally plunging through the net below. Ben's mouth formed a tight smile at the event. _Score! Like making EverQuest Level 66 Necromancer before Connor did..._

Edward calmly retrieved the ball and dribbled it up the court. "Ready?" Edward held up the ball to toss it to him. Ben held up his arms, and Edward tossed the ball to him. Some of Ben's anxiety had already quelled. He caught the ball more easily this time.

"Do you shoot hoops with all your patients?" Ben asked while eying the basket.

"Only you." Edward chuckled.

"I guess I'm 'special,' then, eh?" He shot the ball, but it went wide and bounced off the board. Ben shrugged, but his thoughts were lost to a long string of self-insults. _Runt-loser. I can't even make a shot when it's me and the therapist—no wonder I get laughed at in gym—Dad would just have loved that._ A memory _. The one time his dad had shown up to see him. Swim team finals freshman year—he'd been expected to medal in the breaststroke. But then, a false start. Disqualified. His dad's anger... Ben had quit swimming after that._

"You like sports, though?" Edward asked as he retrieved the ball. He shot and purposely missed, the ball hitting the top of the board.

"I don't really play on any teams, though I play tennis with Connor sometimes."

"But you take Taekwondo and you swim, right?" He'd seen the martial arts image in Ben's head the last time.

Ben went over to retrieve the ball. "Jujitsu, actually, and I don't swim anymore." _His dad's face, red and furious with disappointment._

"Jujitsu's pretty cool."

"I just started... I had wanted to earlier, but..." _His dad again. Jujitsu isn't going to win you any scholarships at this stage, Ben._

"But?" Edward pressed.

"Eh, my dad." Ben shrugged. On one hand he hated it when his dad got that way, on the other... he didn't like talking to other people about it.

"Your dad disapproved?"

"Yep." Ben bounced the ball a few more times and then passed it back to Edward.

"What changed things?"

"My mom."

"She pushed for it?" Edward took another shot. The ball bounced off the rim. Edward caught the rebound and passed it back to Ben.

"Yeah, I talked with her about it, and then she talked with dad."

"You didn't talk with him?"

"No." _Because it wouldn't have made a difference…_

"Why are you afraid of him?"

Ben glanced up from his dribbling, affronted. "Who said I was afraid of him?"

"You appear uncomfortable when you talk about him. You drop eye contact, your shoulders slump, and you try to change the subject. Also, instead of telling him what you really wanted, you talked to your mom. I say you're afraid of him."

Ben bit the inner part of his cheek _,_ but then he gave a nod. "My dad's a scary dude, hot shot Seattle attorney and all that. My mom's sane—and probably the sweetest person alive."

"Why do you think your dad yells at you?"

Ben grimaced. "He wants me to be better.'" Ben ran up to the net and tried for a lay-up. It went in. _Nice._

"You're his child, it's understandable that he would want the best for you, but how do you think he defines 'better.'" Edward picked up the ball on the second bounce and dribbled back to the free throw line.

"Money and clout."

"What do you think your mom wants for you?" Edward held the ball up to aim but then stopped and returned to dribbling.

Ben shrugged again. He didn't like where this was going. "She wants me to do well, push myself, but mostly, just be happy." _And that's why I'm in therapy…_

"You have a good relationship with your mom?" Edward took the shot. _Swoosh._

"Yeah, we're close." Ben smiled and bent down to pick up the ball. _His mom poking him about the upcoming dance and needing a new shirt and trousers, and it not been uncomfortable. She could tell he wanted to go..._

"How do your parents feel about school?"

Ben peered up curiously. "How do you mean?" Ben eyed the basket as he held the ball.

"You have good grades—"

Ben muttered over him, "—but not good enough." Ben began dribbling again.

"—but how do they feel about non-academics?" Edward continued.

"Like sports?" _We already talked about that...?_

"What about social events?"

"Like football games?" Ben took the shot. Another miss. _Oh well._

"Like dances." Edward caught the ball and tossed it back to Ben.

Ben gave Edward an assessing look. "So, you know about the Sadie Hawkins shindig coming up?"

"Forks is a small town, I might have heard something..."

"You live in Forks?" Ben asked in surprise, stopping dribbling and holding the ball as he stared open-mouthed at Edward.

"I do—so are you going to the upcoming dance?"

 _A single female face, long brown hair, features that are thin and angular—and then a sense of defeat._ "I don't know. It's not for a while, but yeah, I don't know," Ben muttered.

"Have you asked her?" Edward asked.

Ben narrowed his eyes at him. "Who says there's a 'her?'"

Edward had to hide a grin. "There's always a 'her.'" He said this as much to Ben as he said it to himself.

Ben shrugged as he began moving up the court with the ball. He was concentrating hard on the shot.

"So, what's her name?"

Ben took the shot.

_Swoosh._

"Angela," Ben murmured as he looked up in satisfaction at the hoop.

Edward stopped where he stood.

_Oh, really...?_

+ll+ll+

February 15, 2005

+ll+ll+

"You look tired."

"Do I?" Bella spoke through her fingers as she yawned.

"Up late reading?"

"No, not reading."

"Talking to your mother? Completing homework? Doing the laundry…?"

"Trying to sleep and failing."

"Do you often have problems sleeping?" Edward asked worriedly. He'd never stuck around after she went to sleep... and he realized he had no idea how she slept.

Bella looked slightly embarrassed, blushing again.

"You're blushing. You want to talk about it?"

"Nothing really, the usual."

"The usual?" Edward had to fight back any show of exasperation.

Bella's blush deepened. Her eyes glanced about the room. She was trying to hide something... "Eh, college stuff?" Her voice went high, and it sounded like a question.

"College stuff?" Edward repeated back to her with a chuckle.

She nodded. She bit her bottom lip and stared up at him, almost pleading with him to take the bait.

Edward leaned back in his chair. He stared at the pen in his hand as he twirled it methodically. "So, Bella, what plans do you have for college?"

Thus, they talked about college for Bella. Bella spoke of possibly majoring in English. They discussed schools she could go to. Every time he mentioned a name outside of Washington, she'd redirect the conversation back to the University of Washington.

Edward didn't like that. "Bella, you don't have to limit yourself."

"The University of Washington is a good school."

"Wouldn't you prefer a small liberal arts college, especially for an English major?"

"I could apply to Whitman or Reed—and the University of Portland is good, but why would I pay to go private or out-of-state, when I can afford in-state here?"

Edward pursed his lips. He didn't like the idea of Bella's future being limited by something so immaterial as money... "What about Phoenix? You could go in-state there."

Bella shrugged. "Maybe." She looked discontented, the pinch obscuring her otherwise smooth brow.

Edward decided to move on. "What about the rest of your future?"

Bella raised a brow. "Like a ten-year plan?"

Edward smiled at her. "Not exactly—but now, I'm curious. Do you have a ten-year plan?"

"I have no such thing." Bella grinned at him.

"Either way, it's not a bad question. Where do you see yourself in ten-years?"

Bella frowned at him and then shrugged.

"Well?"

"I have no idea... spinster, cat-lady librarian still?"

"You don't plan to be married, have a quaint house, 2.59 kids, and the white picket fence?"

"It didn't work out so well for my parents," she replied simply.

"But your mom is happy now."

Bella smirked. "She's past thirty now. You didn't ask me about my _fifteen_ year plan."

Edward chuckled. He hadn't expected that. He spoke softly, "Surely some man will have snagged your heart long before then."

Bella looked down at her hands and blushed. "I'm sure nothing will have come of anything." Her voice quivered subtly, some deep emotion upsetting her demeanor, and as if realizing the obviousness of her behavior, Bella's jaw clenched, and she pulled one of the pillows into her lap.

Wondering at the source of her nervousness and pondering for the first time if there was another reason… not only for her response now, but for her reclusive behavior in general or for why she didn't acknowledge the advances of the boys in her high school—some hidden secret, a broken heart, a love affair gone wrong back in Phoenix. Bella wouldn't have responded in such a fashion if there was _nothing_ to respond about. "So who was he?" he asked in a low voice.

Bella looked up in confusion. "Who was who?"

"The boy from your past—the one you're frowning over?"

Bella looked at him in surprise. "There was no one."

"No one?" Edward asked with obvious surprise.

Bella regarded him with amused eyes. "No one," she assured with mock seriousness, but then her face fell again, and she muttered quietly, "You're assuming someone would like me that way."

"As your therapist, I am." _As your therapist. As your therapist._

Bella's eyes widened slightly, and then she looked away, fixing her gaze on the small statue of the two figures on the end table. "It doesn't matter."

"The great reader of Austen says love doesn't matter?"

"I didn't say that _love_ doesn't matter, and you know, Austen did die a spinster."

"If you didn't mean love, what did you mean by 'it,' Bella?"

Her face was practically tomato-colored as she stared in earnest at her hands. He could hear her heart thumping heavily in her chest. "It's nothing."

And then it hit Edward. She was talking about someone current—someone that she desired but didn't have a relationship with—not someone from Phoenix. "Who is he?"

She looked up at him with a quick frown, and then jerked her gaze back to the window. "I said there wasn't anyone."

Edward didn't believe that—and yet he wished it were so. "Then there _is_ some one. Have you told this person of your feelings?"

"I said there wasn't anyone," she repeated but with less force.

"Bella, if you liked someone, why wouldn't you tell them?"

Bella raised her eyes to meet his, and then her eyes seemed to cloud and she murmured, "Because he may not feel the same." There was defeat in her voice.

Edward had never felt so trapped, trapped in the sense that he wanted beat the tar out of any idiot who could even conceive of not returning Bella's every whim and desire, trapped in that he couldn't say what he wanted to say, trapped in that he wished _he_ were the object of her affections, while simultaneously lashing at himself for wanting what shouldn't be. Regardless, he spoke evenly, "You don't know that."

Bella didn't look up, but she rested her chin on her hand as she stared off to the side. "I'm a logical person. Men and women look for certain traits, factors when they choose a person with whom to share their affection. It's not that different now from the nineteenth century, really. Your looks, your family, your education, your talents and interests, age, weight—they all factor in—as terribly unromantic as that is to say. Thus, I know when someone is out of my league, so it's smart for me to assume that he doesn't like me."

"But what if he reached the same conclusion."

She gave him a level stare. "I would find that hard to believe."

"Why?"

An eye roll. "I'm ordinary—and he's not."

"He's attractive?" Edward asked slowly. In his head, he was going through a mental roster of the young male inhabitants of Clallam county and the surrounding vicinity.

Bella didn't respond.

This was upsetting her, and Edward was focusing on his own woes instead of hers. He spoke comfortingly, "Maybe he's shy?"

A snort. "Not shy."

"When I was in high school, I was shy—not with my friends—but certainly with girls. It's possible that this boy might be that way. What if he was like me?"

"You're my shrink."

"Therapist, Bella, and answer the question."

"Someone like you in my high school would never, er... 'like' someone like me."

"Why would you think that?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'd think that would be obvious."

"I can't read your mind."

"That's a good thing."

"Tell me why you would think that. Explain it to me. Divorce emotion. Use logic."

Bella's head shot up, and she stared at him somewhat defiantly. "Maybe, I like my emotion and logic mixed in a pot." The tell-tale pucker stood out clearly on Bella's brow.

Edward gazed into her eyes in earnest. "I asked you to try, so please try."

Bella looked at him for a long second, before murmuring, "Try what?" She had that foggy look again.

"I asked you why you would think that someone 'like me' would never be attracted to someone like you. Explain that."

She stared at him for a long second, cheeks flushed, but then her jaw trembled, and she began to speak, "You know, high school in Forks isn't that bad, unlike Phoenix, but you're obviously wealthy and that would carry weight, not to mention that you're clearly smart and have perfect skin, teeth, and… features." She shook her head slightly as if to organize herself, and then she turned away again.

Edward swallowed a mouth of thick venom. He hadn't meant for the conversation to take this course. "Bella, whether or not someone is attracted to another person is not based upon a checklist."

"True."

She clearly wasn't going to say anymore, so Edward asked, "Bella, people are just people. Do you think that wealth and physical beauty make someone better than you?"

"Not exactly."

"Why would you think you were less than anyone?"

Her mouth fell open, but then her bottom lip trembled. "It's obvious isn't it? I'm the genetic definition of average and awkward. I am average height. I have brown hair, brown eyes. No, I don't have wrinkles, and I'm not fat, but I'm a B-cup with no balance and pasty skin."

Bella talking about her breasts was not helping Edward.

He reminded himself: _focus._

"Bella, a person's beauty is not defined by parts."

"I'm average, and I'm fine with that."

Edward gaped at her, though she didn't look up. "You aren't average."

"Yes, I am," she muttered, "and also I'm fine with being ordinary, you know."

"You are neither average nor ordinary."

"Then, I'm a freak?" she spoke to the pillow in her lap.

Edward's gazed at her, taking in the milky white skin in such gorgeous contrast to her slightly chaotic mahogany mane, her small pink pout, and the flush that warmed her cheeks, and he found himself aghast—and even outraged—that she could even conceive herself as anything less than perfect. Thus, the subsequent words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"No, Bella, you are beautiful... you just need to figure that out."

Bella glanced up at him, her surprise evident, but then her lips pursed. She spoke skeptically, "You're my therapist. You're supposed to tell me that." And yet there was a hint of question in her tone, and something else too...

Edward closed his eyes and searched his brain for some logical way to explain himself out of this situation—he had stepped over some personal boundary **—** but then...

The approaching thoughts and distinct clicking of heels cut stopped him short.

Edward glared at the door.

_Of all the possible people to show up at this moment, why did it have to be her?_

Bella jumped at the sound of the knock.

Edward didn't even get the chance to respond before the door swung open.

Rosalie stood in the doorway, smiling brilliantly and dressed in an outlandish red dress, something infinitely more fitting for Milan than a Port Angeles clinic. She turned to glance at Bella and with a flutter, brought her hands up to touch the edge of her lips. "Oh, dear me, and it's a quarter after—I'd assumed Edward was ready for lunch by now. My apologies for interrupting." _So, here's the little patient that's causing all the trouble._ Rosalie scanned an ashen-faced Bella up and down, before turning to Edward and arching her brow. _She seems like a typical girl—I don't see what the fuss is about._

Bella stood up them, if a bit shakily. "I'd better be going," she seemed to say to no one in particular.

Edward opened his mouth to say something but seemed unable to find the words.

Bella slid slowly passed Rosalie, who was maintaining a menacingly wide smile.

Finally collecting himself, Edward called, "I'll see you next week, Bella," as she stumbled out the door.

Rosalie closed the door with the snap of her heel the second Bella passed the threshold. She walked into the office and then lay back lazily onto the chaise.

"So, Edward, aren't you going to tell me that I'm pretty, too?"

"If only your personality were so lovely," he spat. "Seriously, Rose, what freckle on your vanity could be so great as to give you the idea that you can just waltz in here and interrupt my sessions with my patients?"

Rose buffed her nails with her sleeve and ignored his tone _. She's not just any patient. You invited everyone else to go on your little surveillance runs but me._

"You wouldn't have wanted to come."

 _But I like being asked._ She put on a fake pout.

Edward wanted to thump Rosalie. She disapproved of his interest in Bella ** _—_** but there was more. "That's not why you're here."

Rosalie pursed her lips. "You're obsessing over her. That's what we do when we find our mates. You're considering changing her."

"I'm considering nothing of the sort. She's my patient."

"Well, then you'd better change your ways, Edward. You didn't even hear me coming because you were too caught up in paying your beloved your little compliments."

Edward grimaced at his sister—but it wasn't just because she was irritating. It was also because what she said...

What she said was true.

+ll+ll+

After he returned home, Edward went for a run.

His only thought was that he wished the Olympic National Park was larger. He raced through the forest along Grader Creek, whipping past trees and bushes and throwing himself over fences and not caring if he blasted through the occasional mountain stream. Around him the forest burst into confusion as animals of every size attempted to flee the sudden shadow of the racing alpha predator. Up Geodetic Hill, down Peak Six, and then Edward ran without additional thought until he reached the slope of Mt. Olympus.

The idea of "Mt. Olympus" being a stone's throw away from Forks, Washington used to make him laugh.

Someone had though to name this after the home of the Gods, _really_?

But now it just seemed a heartless joke.

Unlike the rest of the park, however, the mountain escaped the constant rainy and mild temperatures of the western coast below. Thick snow and six sizable glaciers shaped the higher altitudes. The mountain's jagged drops and steep inclines caused him to slow, if only minimally.

When he reached what could approximately be called the summit, he sat down and gazed out.

Clouds covered most of the horizon, but his clear eyes could see a spot or two of the Pacific Ocean in the far distance. He could even make out the small details of the waves as they lapped at the rays of sunset curving around the horizon.

If he was a painter, he would have thought it absurdly beautiful.

But he found that the scene did not affect him.

So he sat.

Thinking about infinite horizons and endlessness and loneliness.

He wasn't surprised when Carlisle crested a nearby rock face just as the last minutes of the day's light started to slip away. Carlisle didn't say anything at first, though his relief was evident. He didn't like it when Edward took off unexpectedly—no matter the reason. It brought back memories. But Edward was found and accounted for, so Carlisle merely sat by his side and joined him in viewing the clouds fighting over the fading rays of sunset with the mirrors of mountain ice as the audience and the vast expanse of ocean, the stage.

When darkness finally hit, Carlisle turned silently to face him.

 _That was beautiful_.

Edward shrugged but nodded.

_Rosalie said she paid you a visit today. She seemed to think you were having problems with your job._

Edward nodded again.

Carlisle paused, motionless in the dark, but then he sighed. _You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Edward._

Edward turned to him then. "It's not… like that. I like the work. It, well, it _certainly_ beats high school."

Carlisle nodded, smiling. _I'm glad to hear you say that, but your anxiety is over Bella, is it not? She's what is worrying you?_

Edward sighed, not wanting to really dig into this. "I can't read her mind. That's trouble enough."

Carlisle turned to face him. _But it's more than that?_

"She's perceptive. She notices what other people don't my eyes, my age. Who knows what else? And I can't read her mind to quiet her suspicions."

Carlisle frowned. _Some people perceive deeper than others. Bella is different, herself. When you're not focused on fitting yourself into a particular world, you are able to step back and see the size and shape of it. Bella has that perspective—and also, I should think, she is much attuned to you._

Edward shrugged that off. "It's dangerous."

 _Well, do be careful—for our sake as well as hers._ Carlisle paused for a second then.

Edward could feel the conflict in Carlisle's thoughts. There was wariness—a need to protect his family—but also small hopes and affection for Edward. _—It's not just that, though. You're afraid of caring for Bella?_

"What good can come of that?" Edward muttered.

Carlisle looked sadly at Edward. _You mean the possibility that she could be your mate? I understand why you would avoid that, but... I wish your happiness._ The image that followed in his head was one of Edward laughing, content. _Edward_ _**deserves**_ _happiness,_ Carlisle concluded fiercely.

Edward had already turned away from Carlisle. He had no desire to see himself as Carlisle saw him.

"We should head back."

Carlisle nodded and stood with Edward.

The two vampires threw themselves down the mountain.

\+ ll + ll +

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. flapper style: In the 1920s a "new breed" of young women emerged who wore short skirts, bobbed their hair, listened to the new jazz music, and flaunted their disdain for what was then considered acceptable behavior. Trends included wearing excessive makeup, drinking, treating sex in a casual manner, smoking, driving automobiles, and otherwise flouting conventional social and sexual norms.  
> 2\. bimbo: tough guy  
> 3\. flaming youths: Male counterpart to the flappers. Both decadent party goers demanded the access to the liquors that were accessible to the very well connected and thus a demand that had never really vanished increased.  
> 4\. hooch: illegal booze  
> 5\. ritzy: elegant  
> 6\. Noveau Rich in the roaring 20s: Following the example of the wealthiest segments of society, the middle class was now buying on credit and speculating in the stock market which was rising at a feverish pace. This created a new class of wealthy among the higher social circles known as the Nouveau Riche (or New Rich). This created confidence in most urban societies and a transition from old to new began. The new generation resented the hold of the crones of the temperance movements with their Victorian ideals and began their rebellion with a zeal matching that of the Prohibitionists. These newly rich mixed freely with the old rich socialites but were resented for their lack of breeding.  
> 7\. Women's Christian Temperance Movement: Religious group devoted to curbing immoral practices, and one of the strongest parties that lobbied for the Prohibition.  
> 8\. shine: illegal booze  
> 9\. butter and egg man: The money man, the man with the bankroll, a yokel who comes to town to blow a big wad in nightclubs  
> 10\. Pavane pour une infante défunte. (Pavane for a Dead Infanta) piece written for solo piano by the French composer Maurice Ravel (1899) when he was studying composition at the Conservatoire de Paris under Gabriel Fauré. Ravel dedicated the song to his patron, the Princesse de Polignac.  
> 11\. Ouija board: (pronounced /wiʤə/) is any flat board with letters, numbers, and other symbols used to communicate with spirits. It uses a planchette (small heart-shaped piece of wood) to indicate the message by spelling it out on the board during a séance.  
> 12\. bluenose: a prude  
> 13\. Coco: Reference to Gabrielle Bonheur "Coco" Chanel (1883–1971), a pioneering French fashion designer whose modernist philosophy, menswear-inspired fashions, and pursuit of expensive simplicity made her an important figure in 20th-century fashion. And most notably, she popularized "the tan" for pale, white chicks to aspire to during the 1920's. Tanning salons bow to her.  
> 14\. Out on the Roof: to drink a lot; be drunk  
> 16\. Bee's Knees: An extraordinary person, thing, idea; the ultimate.  
> 15\. cloche hat: a fitted, bell-shaped hat that was popular during the 1920s. (Cloche is the French word for bell.) Caroline Reboux is the creator of the cloche hat.  
> 16\. Mt. Olympus: So "Mt. Olympus" as referenced in mythology is the home of the Gods. It is also the highest mountain in Greece at 2,919 meters high, but the one in The Olympic National Park (there are quite a few Mt. Olympus's around the world, actually) is 2,427 meters high, and is the tallest Mountain on the Olympic Peninsula.


	5. T'Would Be Better to Dance Alone

\+ l + l +

October 24, 1929

\+ l + l +

Edward began the morning with the windows unlatched and the panes spread wide open to invite the sunrise breeze and fully display the cloudy lake vista. The morning crispness and the antics of the diving gulls had inspired his first choice among Rachmaninoff's etudes, Opus 39 No. 2. As his fingers skipped across the keys, the mood was light and clever, and Edward felt relaxed despite the burn in his throat.

Unfortunately, the mood was not to last. Though the weather remained constant, Edward felt Chicago darken. Hence his choice of music shifted among the etudes in as the day coursed on, playing selected pieces from Opus 33, before finally returning to Opus 39 to play the funereal No. 7.

By the end of the business day, anxiety and frenzy raged as wild as an uncaged beast, sweeping from one mind to the next. Newsboys hawked hot-off-the-press editions:

PRICES OF STOCKS CRASH IN HEAVY LIQUIDATION, TOTAL DROP OF BILLIONS

_Bankers Confer On Steps to Support Market_

_ORGANIZED BANKING ABSENT_

2,600,000 Shares Sold In the Final Hour in Record Decline

The intellective anarchy felt like an air raid to Edward—bombs erupting as the news hit one pocket of the city after the next. If the financial district took all the direct hits—the chalked X on the target map—the thoughts of the rest of the city still shook and burned as well. Small groups of women gathered, telling their children to "go play" while they sat collected aside radios. Men in suits screamed into phones—not caring whether it be operator, secretary, or their man on the bull market floor cringing at their unintelligible howls. On the odd street corner, soapbox missionaries found themselves preaching to not one or two but _herds_ of listeners as passers-by ground to a halt to listen, rapt in a shared sense of doom. The sentiment was shared by all, for the rampaging pack had reached the precipice and realized that there was no stopping the kinetic tide. Gravity had snaked its claws in, and the whole pack flailed impotently as it plummeted from its once great heights.

The unbreakable Golden Age snapped like a twig.

Edward pressed the final note on etude No. 7, and then he stood. He'd known this was coming, anyway—any creature with two ounces of sanity and a gram of logic would have. Moreover, he knew with total certitude that this wasn't going to get better—not in a day or a week or a month. A decade's worth of inanity could not be patched so easily. He attempted to humor himself with the idea that it was sure to be worse in New York—but such gallows jests failed to assuage his tension.

Edward realized that it was time to bid farewell to urban life in his boyhood city. He moved in a flurry then, not wishing to stay a second longer. He gathered a few choice items—clothes mostly—before taking his final leave of his rooms.

_So long piano._

_So long library._

_Good riddance makeshift home._

He did not even bother to lock the door as he raced down the steps with only a leather satchel across his shoulder. He walked quickly, and when he could do so without being seen, Edward ran at top speed.

He only slowed when he reached the city border. He had to force himself to stop—he needed to make some decisions. Of greatest consequence, he needed to hunt before he really left the urban populace—he was thirsty. In the city, Edward considered himself spoiled for choice, but out here in the countryside, finding "deserving" victims would prove a greater challenge. Thus decided, he scanned the surrounding areas, passing over the murmuring thoughts from smaller residences and searching out—a speakeasy two streets over. The bawdy, drunken swirl of their thoughts was annoyingly loud—but also, _promising._

After a small trip down a flight of steps and along an empty warehouse hallway, Edward reached the entrance way. Two large men stood about in front. The largest, "Big Jack," had a crooked nose and a puckered scar along his jaw line while the other man, Johnny, stood loose with arms crossed and a poorly-concealed pock peeking above his neck collar. Big Jack had a gun in the holster beneath his jacket, and Johnny had his fingers slid into his wide pocket, loosely clutching a pistol as Edward approached.

Edward could just knock them cold, but that could cause... _unnecessary_ trouble.

"What's your business?" Big Jack asked. _He ain't one of Vilani's boys—too small—but then..._ he noticed there was something different about Edward. _Kid moves too smoothly._

"Business?" Edward scoffed and arrogantly cocked his brow. "Certainly not _business_ , gentlemen. I come for _pleasure_."

Johnny chuckled—he'd already knocked back a few. _Mia sure does like the pretty ones._ He chuckled again, uncrossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.

Big Jack eyed Edward reproachfully. "We don't let just anybody in here."

"Oh, but now you wouldn't want to disappoint, Mia, would you? She so earnestly asked me to come." Edward stared confidently into Jack's eyes.

 _Just coal-fucking-black._ Jack shivered. _Dodgy puff, if you ask me._ "Mia's reports any newcomers 'head of time. You ain't on our list." He yanked a crumbled piece of paper from his pocket.

At his side, Johnny had to hide his reaction. _Ain't nobody put nobody on that list since ancient history. What's Jack's beef? Besides, it's not like Mia of all people ever followed any rules—_

"But Mia told me there wouldn't be any problems," Edward sighed, and then he shrugged. "I did come all the way out here, but I suppose I can just tell her later..."

He saw the image in both of their minds what would happen if Edward were right. _Hmm... Seemed like Mia comported herself less the cordially when angered._

Johnny was the one that spoke up, "Oh, get on inside. If Mia wants you in there, you should head on in."

Jack glared in irritation at Johnny but didn't say anything as Edward smiled and strode past him through the doorway, to the other side of the small foyer, and down the iron-wrought stair.

Inside, low-hung lanterns flickered orange through a sticky haze of tobacco smoke, though Edward saw the whole scene quite clearly: a ragtag jazz band in the far corner imitating Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington, a pair of over-muscled barmen pulling unlabeled bottles off tin shelves, and then the speakeasy's patrons, girls squeezed into too-small dresses and men with unbuttoned collars. The large space was made to seem small with the roars of after-work arguments, high-pitched cackles, and the inebriated pounding of fists on clapboard tables. The whole place looked like it could be packed and dispatched in five minutes—not a piece looked refined or polished—just a low-end speakeasy populated by the working class crowd from nearby meat packing plants.

Edward bought a glass of gin for a dime less than the going rate in Chicago. Although, as he sniffed at the vapors, he deduced that the quality was comparably cheaper as well—not that he'd be drinking it. He took his glass and strolled casually to the back corner. There weren't any seats left, so he leaned against the brick wall, searching the minds around for sins above and beyond the typical lust, greed, and gluttony that such establishments attracted. There was a great deal of such boorish mischief: _A sweet-faced Irish girl in the corner was planning on trying to slip out the back way without paying. An elderly laborer gave a weary sigh as he spent the last dollars in his wallet for another flask of white lightning. Angry Bob in the corner was trying to calm himself down over a row with his old man._ _Ricky in the corner was trying to get Olive drunk enough so she wouldn't smack him if he gave it a go at necking on the walk home..._

All in all, a fairly regular group, Edward thought. It was consumed by the regular human weaknesses and yet, thankfully not caught up in the paranoid turmoil of the rest of the world. Most of the speakeasy's occupants were too poor to ever even own a stock; the majority of them seemed either uninformed or uninterested in the grisly financial news of the day.

The exception was a group of seasoned factory foremen sitting in the opposite corner discussing the day's events over poker and cigarettes. The group of four at the table seemed to be regulars—four older men with families, and they were concerned about whether or not the Crash would affect jobs at the factory. One of their number—Marley—had just been laid off, and they had spent the evening trying to cheer him—if unsuccessfully.

After collecting his winnings, Frank glanced up to stare over at his old friend and gave a long sigh. "Marley's nodded off 'gain?"

"You blame him?" Dick didn't look up from drink.

"How much he have?" Oscar elbowed Dick lightly, eying the small pile remaining under Marley's hand.

"Now, the question is—how much he lose?" Frank shook his head sadly.

"Week's salary that he don' have."

"Poor bloke."

"Aye."

"I'll give his share back to Gisella tomorrow," Frank said aloud and mostly to himself. "Poor Gisella has enough to deal with without Marley pissing it all on booze."

At the mention of his wife's name, Marley seemed to stir—and Edward felt the fuzzy thoughts of his unconscious clearing up. The first item that Marley saw when he finally raised his lids was the small pile of cards in front of him. "My turn?" he growled wearily.

"Nah, lay your head back down," Dick urged.

"I gotta win something."

No one said anything.

 _Something's up._ Marley's thoughts started to reel. _Nasty cheats probably_ _tried to_ _cop a coin while I slept—feckin' cheaters—think they can fiddle a coin off a friend—Frank thinks he's angel's piss if only because his brother is a priest._ Marley gritted his teeth.

"You should get home," Dick urged. "Gisella's surely got something in the pot just waiting fer ya."

Oscar spoke up next, "Yeah, kiss little Corinne and Christine g'night before they tuck in."

Marley snorted derisively. _Because I'm just so eager to go home and tell the wife that we don't have an income anymore._ Marley eyed his companions with a touch of brewing anger. _Talking about the girls is a ruse a_ _blind man_ _could see_. He glared down at his pile, counting the bills. _One, two... four? Started with twenty-two, a week's wages—or really, my_ _last_ _wages._ He remembered downing three two-dollar pints and losing a few rounds in their game… _How many rounds had he lost? And what had been the odds?_ Thinking about it made Marley's brain hurt.

On the far side of the room, Edward cringed along with Marley. The man's thoughts came to him like unmatched puzzle-pieces—the shapes fit, yet Marley fought to connect them.

 _Damned Lew Boska_. Mr. I'm-the-Big-Cheese had fired him without a thought. _"Pig-nosed Blarneys can't manage their own cabbage. You're done, Finnegan-Mickey-Mac."_ Marley'd wanted to punch him—one for being a bastard—and two because Marley was only half-Irish—and being half-Irish was no reason to insult a man for anything—but Frank had caught his fist. Marley snorted. _Probably why Frank still had his bloody job. Otherwise, his name would'a been scratched too._ Marley started indignantly at Frank. _If he'd a bit of honor as my friend, he would'a quit along with me. Besides he's full-blooded Irish._ But then Marley sighed. _But Frankie does got little ones to worry on about too—I shouldn't be so cross..._

His thoughts turned to home. _Already owe the shylock fifty for doctor's fee for Chrissy. No clue on how I'm going to manage that._ He looked down at his pile again— _need to be in line at Gustavus early tomorrow morning._ But then he looked across at the piles in front of the others at the table.

Dick was low.

Oscar also looked low, but he probably had most of his bit tucked in his back pocket by now—Oscar was that way.

But Frank was riding high. Marley's anger started to boil over again.

In a low but controlled voice, he called, "Hey, Frank—lend me a bit. I'll pay you back."

Frank, who'd been talking with Dick merrily over his pint, stopped and stared wearily over at Marley. "Sorry—but I think you're done for the night." Frank spoke as if trying to be pleasant, but his voice sounded unsteady. As Frank turned back to Dick, a sense of unease fell over the table. Dick buried his face in his drink as Frank talked on, and Oscar looked away and drew in a long drag on his cigarette.

Frank had never really told Marley "no" before.

And then a shout was heard.

Johnny stumbled in from the doorway. "The Fuzz're coming!"

Edward straightened smoothly and pretended to look like he cared about the news. The rest of the bar had stood in a clamor—and one of the barmen was directing the bar's fleeing clientele—while the other barman was tossing bottles and the odd object into wooden crates. Johnny was securing the cash box behind the bar, while Big Jack out front was trying to hold up the coppers. There was a negotiation underway—the cops were currently rather unsatisfied with the offer of fifty.

Edward followed the crowd out, but his thoughts had turned to the junior police officer—Roger. Roger was in a nervous sweat. The last time he'd been in one of these situations, the whole affair had gone awry. _Gripping my gun too tightly_. The next image was that of a man dead on the ground. _An innocent fella bit the big one._

Edward was trying to decipher if Roger had killed the man purposefully or intentionally or in self-defense—or at all. In fact, given the way that Roger was _still_ clutching his gun too tightly, Edward thought another accident may be imminent. And then there was the way Roger's vision kept hopscotching from Big Jack to Mark at his side to the dark hallway. Thus, Edward was considering intervening for the mere purpose of protecting Chicago's already over-stressed police force.

But then his head jerked west.

Edward had not expected—there had been no way of knowing—they were _friends_.

Marley had stayed with Frank, heading west while Oscar and Dick had headed home South. Marley had been keeping on about the money.

Frank'd told him over and over again, "no" and "no" and " _no_."

Marley, all the while, was growing angrier and less controlled as the alcohol augmented his paranoia and his rage. Frank's most recent denial seeming to push Marley over the edge. "Yer own goddaughter's health!" he screamed.

This final declaration caused Frank to spin on his heel. "Fine, Marley. You're always edging me, but I'll have you know—that's right—yes, _Frank can yell, too_!" Frank snapped, red in the face. "I was planning on returning all your losses tonight back to your family—that's right. I was going to make sure that Chrissy's bills got paid—I was gonna give the dough to Gizzy—because I knew that if I gave it to you, Chrissy's bills would never get paid, and you'd go and piss it all on juice. So, that's right, Marley, I was trying to be a half-way decent godfather—unlike your sorry tries to be a good father," Frank finished with total disgust.

Marley's resulting anger was animal-like in its vindication. "How dare you..." he growled, advancing toward Frank. _No one allowed to call her Gizzy but me—Always suspected he thought I wasn't worth the dirt on his heels—Bastard probably tries to flirt when my back is turned—Won't give me the money—My money—Bastard took my money._ "Give—Me—The—Money." Marley hissed in a low, quiet voice.

Frank ignored him and kept walking.

"You're not to call her Gizzy. Only— _I_ —call her that!"

Frank shook his head irritably but didn't stop his forward march.

Inside Marley's thoughts were see-sawing _—_ ire and hellfire red and bestial animosity _._ Marley roared as he raced forward and shoved Frank from behind.

Frank stumbled forward but managed to catch himself as he wheeled around and screeched, "Stop it, Marley! You're _drunk_."

But then Marley, adrenaline and instinct pumping through his veins, leapt forward and used every ounce of his strength to punch Frank square and unreservedly in the nose.

Edward was running—the blood dragging him forward as Frank's foot caught in street gutter and he toppled backward.

And then...

Edward saw it as Marley did. _Frank fell backwards—fast and at a sharp angle. The way the back of his head cut through the air—the back of his neck cracked against the jagged curb at exactly the wrong angle._ Marley's shock began and as Frank's thoughts ended.

Then Marley was shrieking as his childhood best friend choked on his own blood. Marley's ire and fear had morphed into terror and disbelief. _Frank's neck shouldn't be that way? He hadn't meant to... Surely, an ambulance?_ Marley bent to lift Frank's head.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

Marley dropped Frank's head with a gasp—even as his hands jerked back to buffer the fall.

The crack of the skull against the brick was horrible again.

_What about Rubes? What about little James? What have I done?_

And then Edward was there—but too late. Blood everywhere. The scent of it was overwhelming, red syrupy lines flooding away through the mold and crusty stones of the street. Edward had to use every ounce of his pathetic control to ignore the blood seeping from the slaughtered Frank and focus on the assailant instead. He grabbed Marley—who didn't even seem to see him in his hysteria—and drew him into a back alley. His teeth cut into the flesh, and he drank. Marley's thoughts continued to focused on his act—on what he had done— _Kristin and James and Rubes_ —Frank's family—and as the blood left Marley's body, his hysteria finally lessened and weariness pulled at reality, and Marley slipped away.

When he was finished, Edward laid the body several streets over. He had to remind himself that Marley's attack had been subhuman in its rage. Even though the remorse was there, the sin had been the same. Edward reminded himself that murder was murder—and regardless, he had needed to hunt, and he had made the best of it. Staying in Chicago was not an option. And yet...

Edward arranged the scene so that it appeared like Marley had been mugged.

And then in the dead of the night, Edward returned to Chicago. There was no legitimate bank open at that time of night—and certainly no way he could access any of the vaults. Thus, he made use of what he needed no longer. He managed to find a black market dealer that would take his furniture. Arranging the whole business lasted late into the night.

And then he returned to the area around the speakeasy just as dawn began to creep over the horizon. He searched the area until he found the thoughts for which he searched—those filled with grief and loss. He reached Frank's house first—the two widows were joined there, surrounded by neighborhood women, their red-eyed children, and cold cups of tea.

Edward knocked quickly, leaving the bags of money on the steps, before dashing away. Each of the bags was labeled with the widows' names and "the Widow's Assistance Fund." Edward waited until he heard their gasps and relieved yet questioning thoughts over the contents.

And then he left.

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February 16, 2005

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Though sitting amidst a patch of ferns behind Forks High, Edward was experiencing high school through new eyes. There was much to learn. First, Edward was happy to see that Ben was doing well. Second, he was unhappy to see that Bella, on the other hand, was making no effort on being remotely social. At the lunch table, she spoke only when spoken to—appearing completely uninterested in all topics of conversation. After ten minutes had passed, Bella excused herself and ran off to the library, and only one girl—Angela—Edward was happy to notice, had thought anything of it. In the library, Edward saw her reading _The Jane Austen Book Club_ through the eyes of the passing school librarian.

Edward sighed but then smiled slightly. He supposed the fact that the book was remotely modern must earn her _some_ credit.

And then—third—Edward was having to distract himself from envisioning any number of creative torture methods for making Mike Newton, Tyler Crowley, and Eric Yorkie repent for every disgusting thought they had about Bella. He also had to keep telling himself that it was natural for him to protective of Bella—he was her _therapist_ after all...

And then lunch ended, Bella had Biology, followed by gym. In gym, Newton partnered with Bella, and then proceeded to divide his thoughts between the game, avoiding Bella's badminton racket, and sneaking glances at her unsteady though elegant form. _Tiniest waist in the school, definitely. You could clasp it with just two hands..._ He eyed Bella's figure more carefully. _Well, almost two—thank God she's not some Slim Fast freak like my mom..._

Bella turned then, dodging out of the way of a flying birdie, which Mike hit, and yet Mike had also managed to catch a glimpse down Bella's shirt as she bent over.

Edward was torn between his own interest over Mike's view, and the grating fact that it was through Mike's eyes which he was viewing it.

Meanwhile, Samantha—the girl on the opposing side of the net—was rather determined to win. In her head, she mocked Bella. _Lauren was so right, Bella is such a gimpy flirt. "Look at me! Look at me! I'm poor Bella, who can't walk in a straight line unless every guy in Forks High is goggling at my ass!"_ Samantha gave the birdie a small toss to get a feel for it before serving. _Ass wipe guys shouldn't be impressed by Minnie Mouse squeaks and giraffe legs—Bella could probably use to fall on her cushy little butt_. She gave the birdie a final toss to serve, and then smacked it hard, sending the birdie zooming straight at Bella.

Bella raised her racket, in a way not that different from holding a Chinese fan, and Edward groaned as Mike leaped forward at the same time that Bella snapped her racket out, missing the birdie but managing to clock Mike in his open mouth—which in turn caused Mike to lose his footing and fall awkwardly back against the badminton pole, accidentally clocking his nose on the way down.

Edward felt rather proud of Bella in that instant.

But then he cringed as he watched from a smarmy Samantha's viewpoint as Bella gaped at Newton while Newton sat covering his nose and mouth with his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Mike had to stifle an angry stream of curses. "Sh— I mean—OW. SH—ow. Oh, just crap. Ow," Mike groaned, running his tongue along his front gums as he winced over the pain. And then he saw Bella's horrified expression.

"I'm so sorry, Mike! Are you okay? I—"

"I'll be fine—hazard of the job, right?" He gave a weak chuckle as he lifted his palm from his face.

Edward's nostrils flared even from his hideaway behind the school. He could smell Newton's blood—fresh like mint but soft like leather. Edward swallowed down the pool of venom in his mouth.

Meanwhile, Bella was staring at Newton in wide-eyed horror. She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, but then inexplicably, she skirted away, and Edward heard her murmur disjointedly under her breath, "bluh—bl—blood."

Edward cracked a tree as he saw Bella faint through Newton's eyes.

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Ten minutes later Mike was inside the nurse's room while a waxen-faced Bella was escorted outside to sit on a bench. "It will be better if you sit out here," the nurse assured her. "No blood." She smiled comfortingly at Bella.

Bella nodded somewhat weakly, before walking over to the bench. Already seated on one side was Ben Cheney. "Oh, hi, Ben," Bella greeted him.

"Hey, what's up? You fall?" _Poor Bella—always finding every edge to trip on..._

She shook her head. "No, it's pretty silly, really. I fainted in gym after I knocked Mike in the face with my badminton racket."

Ben barked a laugh. _Aw, Newton could probably use a few could smacks..._

Bella leaned forward, a cool cloth pressed against her brow, as she seemed to take in her surroundings. "I feel like I'm always sitting outside doctor's offices, lately," she grumbled.

Ben didn't miss a beat. "Yeah, me too."

Bella's head popped up curiously. "You haven't been sick lately, have you?" she asked with concern.

 _Fan-frickin-tastic job, Ben. Now, you've worried Bella for no reason, and it's all because..._ but then Ben paused, stopping himself. _Be honest but not negative_ , he repeated to himself _—_ something he and Edward had discussed in their sessions. Ben spoke honestly but with a touch of embarrassment to his voice," My mom's been sending me to therapy. That's all."

Bella's head shot up, and she dropped the rag from her brow. "Do you go to Port Angeles?"

Ben nodded. "Yeah, I see Doctor Cullen."

"Edward Cullen...?"

"Yes, that's right," Ben said slowly.

"Me, too." She was eying Ben in total surprise.

"Yeah, Dr. Cullen's pretty cool..." Ben trailed off. He didn't know what to make of the situation—on Bella being in therapy—or the surprise in her expression.

Edward wondered as well.

And then after a few brief seconds of silence, Bella asked, "So how did you end up outside the nurse's office?"

Ben grinned. "Well, I was trying to show Connor my new jujutsu move—but unfortunately his hand got in the way..."

Bella laughed at Ben's expression, so Ben smiled and continued on, regaling a laughing Bella with the antics of his and Connor's poor attempts at martial arts.

Edward, though pleased in a small way, decided it was time to leave. He felt rather lonely.

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February 22, 2005

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Bella tucked a lemonade bottle in her bag as she sat down. "Ben told me he was seeing you," she said without provocation.

"Did he?" Edward asked lightly. "Did you eat breakfast?" He could hear her stomach rumbling.

"Ben likes you," Bella replied nonchalantly.

"I like him, too. Ben's a good person. You never answered my question, however. Did you eat breakfast?"

"I was running late."

Edward nodded but then reached into the brown bag on the side of his desk. He pulled out an apple from the "lunch" that Esme had packed for him. "Here," he held it aloft as he walked around his desk to hand it to her. "You need to eat something," he insisted.

"You don't need to give me your food," Bella insisted, arms crossed and her brow puckered as she disapprovingly eyed the red fruit.

Then Edward did what he should not have. He didn't even really think about it, but some instinct—some need to protect—brought the action out. He reached out and pulled Bella's hand, lifting it up, and placing the fruit inside. Calmly he told her, "eat it."

But Edward was not calm. The closeness amplified Bella's sweet perfume, which rolled in through his nostrils and down his throat. The shocking softness and warmth of her skin caused every muscle in his body to tingle with the magnetic pull of it.

Bella still sat there, holding the apple and blinking at Edward. She looked _unsettled_ —Edward realized the cold temperature of his hand had probably shocked her. He wanted to hit himself for his lack of forethought. Offering an apple was one thing—but forcing it into her soft palm, that was something else completely, no matter the fleeting delight in her hand's human warmth...

Edward forced himself to return to his desk. Whatever his feelings, whatever his silly fantasies—they didn't matter. What mattered was Bella. It was Bella's here-and-now that mattered. He had all of eternity to brood—he needed to focus on Bella. Bella needed to focus on Bella, for that matter. He needed to accomplish what he'd decided on the mountaintop, he needed to be Bella's therapist _first_. He took a deep breath before looking up. "Bella, I'm concerned about some things..." he began.

Bella not saying anything, took a bite from her apple, and looked up at him curiously.

Edward avoiding looking at her throat while she swallowed. He made a point to look directly into her eyes. "Do you remember in our first meeting, I explained the goals of therapy?"

Bella nodded, chewing slowly.

"Therapy only works if what is discussed in our sessions gets applied to your daily behavior, like making friends for example, socializing. I'm concerned that's not happening."

Bella's features seemed to fall as he finished his sentence. She stopped chewing.

Edward continued on, regardless. "Do you feel like you've made a sincere effort to create a new life for yourself here in Forks?"

"Yes and no." Bella's face seemed frozen.

"How so?" Edward pressed—even though he didn't want to. He knew what he was doing—just as Bella did—he was redirecting their relationship.

Bella responded with her eyes closed. "I guess, I felt like I was waiting for something..."

"Life isn't about waiting," Edward softly insisted. He couldn't back down on this.

Bella's eyes flashed open. " _Carpe diem_ ," she muttered flatly as much to herself as to Edward.

"No, _carpe diem_ is right, Bella. Anyway, that's our goal for today. I'd like to create a plan and some concrete goals for you moving forward..."

And so they created a list. Bella would make an effort to join in on study groups, try to talk more with Angela and possibly Jessica, and join Charlie on one of his fishing expeditions—though she could bring a book. She would also try to join a club of some sort...

"Time's up," Edward announced at the end of the hour.

Bella, folding up her list, said nothing but nodded. She exited the room with careful steps.

On the table, the apple sat missing only a single bite.

Bella had forgotten it.

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Down the hall, Maggie sat talking enthusiastically with Charlie. She liked him. She had also shown up ten minutes early for her appointment with the slight hope that she would see Charlie. And while Edward couldn't hear Charlie's exact thoughts, the subtle hints of images: the soft hum of Maggie's laugh—blinks of long lost memories of red carnations and knee-length dresses and opening doors... Charlie seemed mutually happy to see Maggie.

At their last appointment, she had asked Edward, _"It's okay if I think he seems like a nice man?"_

Currently, Maggie was chatting with Charlie about books, the topic of her new puppy, Howdy, having already been exhausted. Charlie, who seemed to have little understanding of what Maggie was talking on about, gave her his full attention, because more than anything, he liked seeing Maggie look so much happier.

They both sat straighter when Bella entered the room.

"Did you mention a book club?" Bella asked Maggie with no hint of reticence.

Maggie smiled warmly at Bella. "Yes, I belong to a book club through the local library here."

"Is it open for anyone?" Bella asked somewhat determinedly.

Charlie looked at his daughter with a touch of surprise.

Maggie smiled more broadly. "Of course, would you be interested?"

Bella nodded, and so, the two women exchanged the necessary details. Maggie felt more than a little excited that she would be getting to know the Chief's daughter. She almost thought about offering Bella a ride—but then realized that would look too forward. Driving all the way out to Forks would be a bit impractical…

Marching out the door with her father five minutes later, Bella muttered "Carpe diem" under her breath.

Edward had the strangest feeling that she knew he was listening.

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February 25, 2005

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Edward tried to tell himself that he had every reason to be standing the woods behind Forks High. He had avoided going since his most recent appointment with Bella. There was no pressing reason to go, but today, he had Ben to worry about… and checking in on Bella couldn't hurt. Surveying his patients in their natural environments could only provide him with more information that would aid him in their care.

He and Ben had spent a good portion of his session that morning going over the topic of "Angela." After getting past the "I'm too short," "She's too smart," "I like Japanese swords too much," and the "There's no way a girl like that would ever like me," Ben had finally agreed that he ought to ask Angela out.

Today, Ben had dropped the ball at the last minute, but he had gone so far as to mention the dance to Angela—by way of suggestion but with no obvious proposal—so as to assess her sentiments on the topic of the "dance." The response had been positive, and thus, both Angela and Ben were positively beaming as the school day came to a close.

Bella met Angela in the library after classes finished. They had a trigonometry assignment that was proving to be challenging, and Bella had asked Angela if they could work on it together.

"Why are you smiling?" Bella asked her curiously.

Angela shrugged but the smirk didn't leave her face.

Bella smiled back at her. "It's alright if you don't want to talk about it, but…" She gazed at Angela. "You just look like you won the lottery."

Angela giggled, even as her hand shot to cover her mouth, and she looked up at Bella in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry—I—well—it may be nothing."

"It's okay," Bella assured. "It's alright if you'd like to keep it private."

Angela took a big smiling breath. "I should tell someone," she announced aloud, and then she turned to Bella. "It's just that it may be nothing, and I don't want to seem silly about it, but I guess I just can't help it."

Bella looked completely flabbergasted by Angela's confession.

Angela realized that she rarely spoke so forthrightly with Bella. "I feel like I can trust you, Bella. That's all."

Bella smiled back at her. "You can."

"Well, it's just that I've had a crush on someone… I've never told anyone about it before—because I didn't think it would ever amount to anything, but then he mentioned the dance today, so…." Angela trailed off again, her face tightening with some combination of embarrassment and happiness.

"May I inquire as to who's the lucky…?"

Angela took a deep breath. "Ben Cheney."

Bella blinked. She clearly had not expected the name.

"You can say it, Bella," Angela urged.

"Say…?"

"I look like a _beanstalk_ standing next to him."

Both Bella and Edward laughed.

"No, Angela, that wasn't it at all… I just—I never knew. I can't believe I never noticed anything—but I like Ben a lot—he's really nice."

Angela smiled. "I think so, too," she said simply, and then she turned to her friend. "So since I've confessed my heart, where's yours? Mike Newton got a hope?" she teased lightly.

Bella blanched. "Mike?"

Angela nodded. "You talk to him a lot. And you told him you'd go with him to First Beach."

"That's a _group_ trip." Bella wrinkled her nose. "I do like Mike—it's just... No, I don't like Mike _that way_."

Edward thought he might sing a song.

Angela nodded at Bella. "Well, if I ask Ben to the dance, maybe you can ask Connor. That would be fun, wouldn't it?"

Bella turned and stared at Angela warily. "Angela, you do know that I don't dance, right?"

Angela laughed. "Well, now that you say it…" She laughed again. "You don't have to dance, though, Bella. We can just eat dinner and wear pretty dresses."

Bella looked slightly uncomfortable. "I don't know…"

"Oh, of course, don't even think about going if you think you wouldn't like it—just know that you have an open invitation."

Bella smiled back at Angela. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"So, about this trigonometry…"

Both girls laughed.

Edward liked Angela very much—she was a good friend for Bella. It was clear to him that Bella was truly making an effort, and yet... he couldn't dispel his anxieties. Because even if Bella was acting in accordance with the therapy goals that they'd set for her, it didn't mean her heart was in it.

Edward decided he needed to go for another run.

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March 1, 2005

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"I didn't want him to leave," John confessed.

"Why didn't you ask him to stay then?"

"At the time, I had a heap of reasons, but…" John rested his chin on his thumb. "I guess they were stupid reasons."

"What were your reasons?"

John grimaced. _I was a vain, insecure prick and thought that Eliot would leave my sorry ass._ "He was younger than me—so I told him he should find someone better. He was always on my case about leaving the toilet seat up. He didn't like _Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy._ " _The meaning of life is 42, whatever you say, you bastard._ "I refused to read that Voltaire _Candide_ bullshit he kept telling me was funny—even though it wasn't, and…" John took a long sigh, dropping his hand from supporting his face and staring glumly up at Edward. "I never said the words… he was open. He said everything. I said a lot—I always do." He smiled wryly. "But I never said—I was afraid to change." _I didn't tell Jeremy I loved him—so yeah, now he's off with that cracker-faced Leonard._

"You didn't acknowledge him, so you lost him?"

"He's with someone else now, yeah."

Edward spoke slowly. "What would you have done differently?"

An image. _Passionate declaration—"I love you, you dumbass!" followed by a shredding of clothes—and a couch—_ but then embarrassment. _Eliot isn't_ _my Eliot_ _anymore._ John's expression was muted when he answered Edward. "Should-a told him he had the best ass in town."

"John," Edward sighed.

"Yeah, yeah—I'm sidestepping—I know—I should have told him that I love him," John muttered. "Because—yes—I did. I loved him. I loved the man, and that was worth a hundred stupid frustrations and every pound of my 'fragile' pride, wasn't it?"

Edward didn't say anything. He just nodded.

\+ ll + ll +

Bella's next appointment began with a rather formal air. Edward didn't mean for it to feel that way, but he felt so on edge that he knew absolute control was necessary. And he wasn't the only one on edge. Bella's brow seemed always furrowed, her characteristic pinch was ever-present. She had given him her progress report in a manner not unlike show-and-tell or the way one would give a class presentation.

Yes, she was talking to Angela now, and she was glad she had made the effort.

Yes, she was pursuing social activities outside of school related to her interests. She was going to the upcoming Port Angeles Book Club meeting with Maggie.

Yes, she was engaging in purely social events as well. A few friends had organized a trip to First Beach on this coming weekend, and she had agreed to attend.

Yes, she had been engaging Charlie more and more in conversation. The previous night at dinner she had asked him about fishing with Billy and how they became friends, and when that topic had been exhausted—for Charlie wasn't much of a storyteller—Bella had asked about Maggie. Charlie had gone red in the collar over that one.

And then Edward had asked about the upcoming dance.

"No. I'm not going."

"It would be a good idea. You only have these high school experiences once."

"I hate dancing."

"It's a girl's choice dance. You can choose your partner. You should ask someone you could have fun with."

"That's a limited pool," Bella muttered wryly. She looked to be… in an ill-temper. Edward had the impression that he was testing her patience.

"Is there no one?"

Edward saw the tiniest hint of blush come into her cheeks before her eyes flashed and her jaw set in a hard line. "You aren't suggesting Ben?" She looked slightly scandalized.

"I was not."

"Good, because my friend is asking him."

Edward smiled. "I'm glad to hear that."

Bella's eyes, which were already avoiding Edward's, flicked over the small sculpture on the end table. "You aren't playing cupid, are you?"

"It's not in my job description, no."

"Because there's Ben—but also, I think my dad's going to ask Maggie out whenever he gets the guts."

Edward smiled again. He hadn't known about that—though, he supposed he wasn't surprised. "How do you feel about that?" he asked Bella.

She looked up and caught his eyes. "I think it's good."

"But you won't go to the dance."

"No." Bella's eyes left his. Stubborn defiance shaped her posture.

Edward gave up on that topic—and tried to tell himself that it was more for Bella's sake than his own. Thus, they talked more about Bella's progress, but Edward couldn't also help but feel that the door that had been opened in their first appointment—the small talk over old books—had been closed somehow and that now Bella was only sharing the most minimal part of herself.

"It's about time?" Bella asked, glancing up at the clock.

It was 9:56 AM. Still a bit early, but Edward nodded. "Also, Bella—before you go—they may not have mentioned this at the front, but I'm going to be out of town next week, so we'll have to reschedule your appointment."

"That's fine." Bella smiled politely—too politely. Her smile was tight.

And then she left. The door clicked shut behind her.

\+ ll + ll +

March 4, 2005

\+ ll + ll +

Ben still hadn't worked up the nerve to ask out Angela—but today was to be the day. They had discussed various tactics during Ben's session, and now Ben was promised to his mission, and Edward was amid the ferns behind Fork's High to observe. Edward reproached himself for the tickle of relief he felt when he saw Bella's face flit into view of the freshman's mind that he was following. Edward was _supposed_ to be focusing on Ben.

Unfortunately, Edward was having a difficult time focusing on Ben.

Because a piece of nasty human slime—no matter that he had a name—or that said name was "Eric Yorkie"—was trying to ask Bella to the dance.

"You wanna go—I can take my dad's car and—so the dance, right?" Yorkie finally spit out his request to Bella.

Edward's heart to sank to the concrete floor.

But then he saw Bella's face—Yorkie had finally gotten up the nerve to look her in the eyes.

There were many possible ways to ensure that Bella might form such an expression. One might tell her that Mr. Darcy was "a boring character," or that Maryanne's final happiness exceeded Elinor's or that Heathcliff had no redeeming qualities. Bella's expression was one of total, flustered astonishment. There was no doubt in Edward's mind that Mr. Yorkie's offer to go to the dance had rattled Bella to the core.

For the most fleeting of seconds, Edward felt a tingle of pity for the slighted boy, but then—seeing Bella's reddened cheeks, widened eyes and stuttered denials...

Edward flopped down onto the forest floor and laughed his heart out.

Thus, Edward had a brief reprieve and was able to keep an eye on both Bella and Ben as the day progressed, until Newton had to show his hand. Newton, with his schmaltzy "my-dad-owns-a-sporting-goods-store" clothes and his over-gelled blond hair, sat in the chair next to Bella before the start of Biology class.

After doing a cowardly mix of back-steps and side innuendos, he finally grew some and asked Bella to the dance.

Edward knew she didn't like Newton—but nevertheless, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Bella's face fall.

This time, however, Bella seemed more prepared. "I have a book club meeting," she said a bit stiffly.

"You'd rather go to a book club meeting than the dance?" Newton asked incredulously.

Bella nodded slowly, as if she didn't understand his question. "Why, yes," she said, eyeing Mike with something close to tested patience. "Besides, Jessica wants to go with you."

Edward had to roll his eyes at Newton's assessment and comparison of the two girls. The kid was more than a little thick in Edward's opinion—not to mention _vulgar._

Thankfully, Mr. Banner sauntered in, and Mike fled to the back of the class to lick his wounds while a red-faced Bella seem to focus determinedly on the lesson.

When school ended, Edward smiled in amusement at the terrified and yet excited thoughts of both Angela and Ben.

Ben met her at her locker. "Uh, hi, Ang," he greeted, smiling somewhat shyly. His jaw seemed a bit tight.

Angela smiled back at him, noticing his shyness, and then wondering... _Why does he seem so...? Oh._ _OH_ _._ She nervously suppressed a silly smile as she grabbed the final book from the top shelf.

Meanwhile, Ben was building up the courage. _Just ask her. Just ask her. You can do this._

Edward was beginning to feel as nervous as Ben.

And then he spit it out. "Do you wanna-go-outwidmesomtine." Ben's tongue twisted in a knot at the end.

Angela's responding smile was dazzling. She gave a short nod.

Ben thought he might die of happiness. He smiled back at her with dizzy joy.

"Actually..." Angela grinned even as she sheepishly turned back to her locker. "I was hoping to ask you to go to the dance with me, if you'd like...?" She swallowed in her nervousness.

Ben was nodding so fervently that Edward thought he might go airborne at any minute. "Yeah! I mean, yeah. That's great! Really great. We can go to the dance. I can go with you—I mean. Yeah, I like dancing."

"Good."

"Yeah, good."

"Good."

"Yeah..."

"I, uh, I promised Bella..." Angela pointed over her shoulder.

"You have to go, of course." More zealous nodding from Ben.

Angela felt rather stupid in her ability to do anything but smile at him.

And yet he smiled back. "See you tomorrow?" he asked, his voice a tad high.

"Tomorrow," Angela agreed, and then she closed her locker.

Thus, Ben proudly marched out to the parking lot, while Angela half-skipped to the library.

As Angela sat down, Bella was staring at her with assessing eyes. "Something happened?"

Angela released an uncontrolled giggle.

It appeared that the giggle told a discerning Bella all that she needed to know. "He said, 'yes!'" Bella concluded with excitement.

Angela nodded amid her happy giggles.

"I knew he would," Bella insisted with a wise gleam in her eyes.

"But, Bella—that's not all! Before I could even ask him about the dance—he asked _me_ out. We're going to go out sometime..."

Bella, seeming at a loss as to how to handle her joy for her friend, spontaneously threw her arms around Angela.

Angela stiffened, seeming surprised at first by Bella's hug, but then she returned the embrace.

Bella tried to explain herself, "It's just—oh—Angela—there's no one who could deserve happiness more—and Ben is _great_ , so, I'm just really, really happy for you. That's all."

Pulling back slightly, Angela smiled back at her. "I am happy, aren't I?"

Both girls laughed with silly pleasure.

Angela's expression changed then, and she grinned knowingly at Bella. "So speaking of boys, Eric, Mike, and Tyler all asked you today?"

"Tyler?!" Bella looked around fearfully. "Not yet..."

Angela laughed. "So, you're still determined not to go?"

"Determined as ever."

"Well, I won't press you, but I'm glad you're going with us to First Beach."

Bella's face seem to fall slightly then, as if some thought had caught her, and she didn't respond.

"Did I say something?" Angela asked worriedly.

Bella's face shot up. "Oh! No! Of course not... It's nothing."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Bella took a breath and looked way for a moment before turning back to Angela. "I _should_ talk about it."

"You don't have to, if you'd rather not," Angela insisted.

Bella shook her head. "No, it's just that I've been going to some therapy sessions since coming to Forks, and..."

Angela smiled comfortingly. "And...?"

"I don't think I've been going for the right reasons."

"Bella, you always have good reasons," Angela corrected her.

Bella smiled warmly at her. "Well, when I first started going, I had only planned to attend for one or two sessions. I had promised my parents that I'd give it a try."

Angela nodded.

"But I kept going."

Angela waited patiently for Bella to continue, and yet Bella looked so... sad. Angela didn't want Bella to talk about it unless she was ready—and clearly therapy was personal. "Well, Bella, if you don't think your sessions are helping anymore than you don't have to go."

"You're right," Bella said distractedly.

Angela was distressed to see that Bella looked even more distressed than before.

But then Bella's face cleared, and she smiled, if a bit weakly. "So, how exactly did Ben ask you?"

Angela could tell that Bella wanted to change the subject. Thus, with an extra dose of enthusiasm, she proceeded to recount the details of the day's incident.

Out in the forest, Edward was already running.

\+ ll + ll +

At some point Edward realized that neither running, playing the piano, nor listening to any number of clanging heavy metal groups was going to alleviate his mood. He had just reached this decision when Jasper poked his head through his bedroom doorway.

"I must opine, brother. You're a first rate wet blanket, but you already knew that, didn't you?" Jasper muttered wryly.

"Am I?" Edward muttered irritably.

"Look here, Mudsill. We all catch some hard knocks, but you got to bucker up."

"It's not my fault you're a soggy pancake," Edward spat back.

Jasper rolled his eyes. "Emmett said he wants to take your Nob-self hunting."

"I already heard."

 _'Course you did._ But Jasper went on talking as if Edward had said nothing, "Said he thinks you could use to go chase some a cheetah or two—was offering to take you to Africa."

"How very generous of him."

"Also, thought you should know that Peter and Charlotte were fixing a date to come up here this next weekend or so."

Edward sat up sharply. "To Forks?" _He didn't like the idea of vampires who weren't vegetarians coming anywhere near the Olympic Peninsula, especially near Bella..._

"Nah, Spoons. Where else?"

Edward glowered at him. "You know, I have to keep reminding myself that you weren't with us the first time we lived here, but you should be aware of the fact that Emmett has already exhausted every cutlery joke in existence."

"Yeah, yeah, anyway, thought you should know," Jasper called as he headed back down the hallway.

As soon as Jasper was gone, Edward stood. There was something he had to do before the night ended. He needed to see her.

 _Just a final farewell_ , Edward told himself.

Jumping into motion before he could come up with a reason to stop himself, Edward threw open his bedroom window and jumped into the night.

\+ ll + ll +

When he reached her house, the first sound that seized his attention was the gentle beat of Bella's heart.

It made Edward smile fondly, even as his throat ached.

And then Edward jumped, landing silently and balancing himself on the edge of Bella's window frame as he peered into her room. Inside, Bella was wearing a faded old t-shirt, which was just visible as her shoulders popped out from under her blankets. Her skin looked paler than usual in the moonlight, seeming to shine—almost like a vampire's.

The thought made Edward shiver, but he couldn't tell if the shiver was good or bad.

And then Bella stirred, turning slightly, and Edward froze as the words escaped her lips, "Gooood job Ben. Good job."

Edward had to stifle the urge not to laugh.

Bella, it would appear, _talked_ in her sleep.

Edward's curiosity tempted him. Here, Bella's unfiltered thoughts were accessible. Here, he could know her better. Here, he could observe her expressions completely unguarded. The realization urged Edward to want to move closer—to be in her presence. This was "a final goodbye," after all, so Edward decided that it seemed perfectly natural for him to go inside. Thus, he pushed her window open.

The panel creaked slightly as the window slid upward.

But Bella did not stir.

Edward slid into her room.

The force of her scent hit him harder than he'd anticipated. He was used to their appointment in his controlled office space, but in her bedroom, he was unprepared. Her scent ran wild here—concentrated and unrestrained.

With no small amount of effort, Edward forced himself away from Bella and toward an aged rocking chair in the corner of the room. He sat there for the next few hours, taking carefully controlled breaths and chuckling occasionally to himself at the strange words that seemed to come from Bella.

_"No more fish."_

_"Edmund's not the one."_

_"Dancing is for ponies."_

_"Red truck. Green Forks. Brown Christmas."_

After several hours, Edward sensed the subtle changing of the light. The sunrise was nigh.

He needed to go.

But then the realization tore through Edward. A ripping, scraping, freezing sensation. _He had promised himself he would never see her again._ She didn't _want_ to see him anymore. She had told Angela. He would respect that. He owed her that as her therapist.

And yet he couldn't deny the pain that seemed to rip through the empty space in his chest.

"Goodbye, Bella," he whispered aloud.

Bella didn't move.

And then—the fancy took him. Like some boyhood notion of knights and chivalry, and the need to signal his farewell in a final act pushed him toward Bella's bedside. At her side, he could see her moonlit skin, her rich hair, and the subtle pink of her cheeks. _Beautiful._

Edward steeled himself. He focused on the pain in his chest. The agonized void. Then, he leaned over and he gently pressed his lips to Bella's.

Her lips were warm and soft and velvet and so completely human and beautiful.

But then he threw himself back—back flesh against the wall as he sat stick still like a statue.

Bella had moved her lips. They had moved back against his with a feather brush. And to top it all, her heart had changed—an uptake in the beat—and then she had released an unmistakably soft and low moan—and she had moaned one word, one word alone: "Edward..."

Edward stood in total panic.

But then Bella sighed, her slumber unabated, and she smiled happily in her sleep.

Edward let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He let out the long breath, and then slumped to the floor as a warm emotion replaced the cold and began to overtake his mind and body. Edward did not know how to label it or define it. The venom in his veins seemed to course anew—racing frantically. The dead space behind his heart seemed to fill and overflow, and Edward's stone-like facial features were beyond his control as they cemented in what he realized was a wide and guileless smile.

Edward stared at the sublime loveliness of the sleeping girl on the bed, and he recognized that something had changed. Something fundamental.

During his entire existence as a vampire, the only instinct he had ever felt was to take—to drain—to destroy and kill. But now, as he stared at Bella, he found himself wanting to fill her up in every way. He felt bound to give himself completely, dote on her every whim, protect with every power he possessed—and love...

 _Yes_ , he realized, _I love her_.

He loved her.

When the first hints of sunshine began creeping over the mountains, Edward leaped from Bella's window. He gave a last glance back before heading home. As he ran, Edward tried to process his happiness, the whisper brush of dreamland lips, the shape of a soft mouth pronouncing his name—but he kept losing himself in the memories. Of what was truth and what was his own fancy, he couldn't begin to judge.

But of one truth, Edward was sure.

The vampire who'd gone into that bedroom was not the one who'd left it.

\+ ll + ll +

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Rachmaninoff's first set of Études-tableaux (Op. 33) dates from the summer of 1911, while the second set (Op. 39) was completed in 1917. Rachmaninoff described the etudes: The first Étude in A minor [Op. 39 No. 2] represents the Sea and Seagulls; the second Étude in A minor [Op. 39 No. 6] was inspired by the tale of Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf; the third Étude in E fl at major [Op. 33 No. 4] is a scene at a Fair; the fourth Étude in D major [Op. 39 No. 9] has a similar character resembling an oriental march; The fifth Étude in C minor [Op. 39 No. 7] is a funeral march…'  
> 2\. The Wall Street Crash of 1929, also known as the Great Crash or the Stock Market Crash of 1929, was the most devastating stock market crash in the history of the United States, taking into consideration the full extent and duration of its fallout. Three phrases—Black Thursday, Black Monday, and Black Tuesday—are commonly used to describe this collapse of stock values. All three are appropriate, for the crash was not a one-day affair. The initial crash occurred on Thursday, October 24, 1929, but the catastrophic downturn of Monday, October 28 and Tuesday, October 29 precipitated widespread alarm and the onset of an unprecedented and long-lasting economic depression for the United States and the world. This stock market collapse continued for a month.  
> 3\. Louis Armstrong: Louis Daniel Armstrong (August 4, 1901 – July 6, 1971), nicknamed Satchmo or Pops, was an American jazz trumpeter and singer, who came to prominence in the 1920s as an innovative cornet and trumpet player.  
> 4\. Duke Ellington: Edward Kennedy "Duke" Ellington (April 29, 1899 – May 24, 1974) was an American composer, pianist, and bandleader. Ellington was known in his life as one of the most influential figures in jazz, if not in all American music. His reputation increased when he died including a special award citation from the Pulitzer Prize Board.  
> 5\. speakeasy: Prohibition-era name for an illegal bar  
> white lightning: home-made liquor, typically not too far from grain alcohol  
> necking: making-out  
> Blarney: derogatory term for an Irish person in the US (***There was no such thing as "P.C." in the 1920's, so really there should be more of this... but um, since I'm of Irish descent I feel more comfortable acknowledging these terms than some of the terms still in use today for people of Jewish and African descent.)  
> shylock: moneylender  
> 6\. Gustavus: one of the major meat packing companies in Chicago 1920s  
> 7\. The Jane Austen Book Club a book by Karen Joy Fowler; recently made into a movie.  
> 8\. Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: a science fiction comedy series created by Douglas Adams. Originally a radio comedy broadcast on BBC Radio 4 in 1978, it was later adapted as stage shows, a series of five books first published between 1979 and 1992, a 1981 TV series, a 1984 computer game, etc. Most importantly, the books explain that meaning of life is 42. Very wise.  
> 9\. By Voltaire, Candide explores the fallacies of blind was a smash hit play when performed as a political critique against the government in France.  
> 10\. More civil war slang:  
> Nob: A person who is superior or acts superior to others  
> Mudsill: Unkind Southern term for a Northerner  
> Hard knocks: tough break  
> 11\. Note on Bella's therapy: depending on insurance and the particulars of the situation, most therapy allotments will offer a set number of hours (for example, 3-12 hours) per "incident" (I hate that term, actually.) with the option being open to request more sessions at the therapist's discretion. Naturally this depends on an individual's insurance coverage in the US, whether or not medication is prescribed, the nature and degree of trauma from the incident, etc. Bella hasn't experienced trauma, and therefore is not really in need of the kind of extended psychoanalysis often portrayed in movies--in fact, one could argue, in the hands of another therapist, she may have had far fewer sessions.


	6. The Archer Shoots Awry

\+ l + l +

January 14, 1930 - St. Louis, MO

\+ l + l +

Edward examined the letter that he held carefully in his hands. The elegant script on the letter listed "Dr. and Mrs. Carlisle Cullen" in Burlington, Vermont as the senders, although Edward had known the letter's origin even before he opened the mail box. Their familiar scents were easily identifiable. But still, he didn't open the envelope. Edward wasn't ready.

Edward knew how Carlisle had found him—he'd expected it. Carlisle had been keeping track of him, probably through bank accounts and a careful surveillance of newspapers. He'd probably known that Edward was in Chicago the entire time—and yet Edward wondered that neither Carlisle nor Esme had come for him. That bothered Edward. It also bothered him that they had decided to contact him now—now that he had left Chicago and spent the past month in St. Louis. Edward realized they were probably hoping that something had changed, that he had left Chicago for a reason, or maybe, if he was being kind, they simply missed him too much not to try contacting him in some way.

He hoped that was what it was, because truthfully, he missed them, too.

But he wasn't going back.

He wasn't like them. He wasn't going to pretend he didn't _need_ the blood. They had to accept that. Maybe someday, though...

Edward pushed the letter down deep into his pocket and walked on with purpose, heading to the corner billboards at the grocer's. He ignored the vast variety of for-sale and for-hire adverts and focused solely on the single, familiar flier. This was the third time he had come back to read it.

* * *

Auction! Auction! Auction!  
Total Estate Liquidation

Bidding Starts Promptly at 11:00 AM  
Fischer Street Building - Front Room  
Intersection of Fischer & Vine Streets

1928 Model Rolls-Royce Phantom I

All Weather Touring Sedan/Landaulet  
143.5-inch wheelbase  
6-cylinder engine  
120 horsepower

French Parlor Set  
Two fine oak chairs  
12 by 4 ft imported Persian rug  
Ming Dynasty porcelain tea set  
Fine African Ivory Sculpture

[...]

_Please see J. Ewen for Certifications, Titles, and Showings._

* * *

Edward felt oddly nit-witted, because the Phantom garnered but one base thought: _I want_ _that._ He desired the Phantom I _very much—_ with sentiments much stronger than any immortal creature should ever feel for a terrestrial object.

And other sentiments, too. Because even as he tried to ignore them, the sleek outline of the automobile brought back memories. Edward felt them with resentment as well as a pang of longing. Edward fingered the envelope in his pocket. When he'd lived with Carlisle and Esme, they'd owned a _Buick_. Edward frowned at the recollection. At the time, he had secretly contemplated putting one long scratch down the side even as he'd reproached himself for such childishness. As a more mature form of protest, however, he'd simply refused to ride in it when he could, opting to run instead. What Edward had truly wanted was the Silver Ghost, but Carlisle had talked "sense."

"We can list every single family in this city that owns one. We can't afford to attract that kind of attention."

"But it's fast," had been the unspoken grumble. Edward had clamped his mouth shut because he knew he was in the wrong, and yet still... there was nothing he hated more than feeling so contained.

But he wasn't contained now, and more importantly, buying the car would no longer be so conspicuous. A good number of bankrupt estates were being forced to sell their well-polished vehicles. Moreover, Edward was no longer living in a stationary location. He was on the move, never staying in a city longer than a month—and a car was most assuredly a justified expense for a nomad such as himself. He saw himself then: _Throttle in top gear, the Great Plains spread out in front of him, and the pedal flush against the floor as he roared toward the fading curve of the horizon line._

Now, Edward just needed the money. He had enough on him to cover a sizable portion of what he'd need, but for the rest—

\+ l + l +

Edward hit the riverfront gambling dens in the next hour, and naturally, poker was the game of choice.

The man sitting across from him had a straight.

Edward had a pair of twos. He smiled to himself as he watched the man's expression falter when Edward folded instead of upping the odds.

 _But he looked so taken with himself when he looked at his hand..._ _Well, no matter, either way I'm going to win some money with a hand like that._

Edward let Terrence win two rounds before flattening him. The man had let Lady Luck grab him by the balls... Thus, Edward took the contents of his pocket, as well as a sharp percentage from the wallets of the other three men at the table. When Edward stood to leave, Terrence's mental swearing hit him full throttle and continued to follow him out the door. Edward rolled his eyes. _Gambling is for fools..._

But then he smiled— _and mind reading vampires,_ he thought with a chuckle.

By two, he already had over four thousand dollars—a combination of his recent winnings and the contents of his local bank account—stowed in the satchel that he'd brought, but he still needed more—more than seven thousand to be safe. Hence, he made his way up river, leaving behind the more urbane nighttime haunts and heading toward the darker, less legal, and more dangerous of the riverside dens.

He easily made his way into the main area of the speakeasy. There the front tables were crowded with men with slicked back hair and much younger women in glitzy dresses, while on the stage dancing girls in short dresses swirled in rickety heels. Edward ignored the fanfare and walked down a short hallway to find a group of men lounging on long couches.

The largest—Ray—stood when he entered. "Who you?" he asked with evident distaste as he sized Edward up and down.

"I was looking for a game," Edward smirked innocently.

"Game's out front," the man instructed, pointing a finger back down the hallway.

Edward shook his head lightly. "My fellow gentlemen, you've placed me all wrong." The wave of his hand dismissed their words.

He got four skeptical looks in response.

He smiled through narrowed eyes. "I heard the _real_ games were in the back."

The men looked at him with complete distrust. All of them had their hands gripping some stowed weapon—either blades or guns.

Ray in the front growled sharply at him, "Who told you that?" at the same time that the youngest, Angelo pulled the cigar out of his mouth to snicker to the others in Italian, " 'sto finocchio pensa ch'ha di soldi."

"Oh, ho un po' di denaro," Edward responded, ignoring Ray and looking straight at Angelo. Angelo—despite being the youngest—held the most sway. He was the Boss's son. Edward pulled out the wad of cash from his inner coat pocket and fanned it out with a sleight of hand before their eyes.

There was silence for a moment, and then...

Raucous laughter. Clapping. Disbelieving guffaws.

"Eh, he's a'good!" Angelo declared happily. _The old man won't mind. It's the bulls he's worried about—but this guy_ _i'nt_ _no bull. The bulls don't show with that much dough—Dicks at the clubhouse just are not that smart._

Murmurs of assent followed from the others.

And then the game was arranged. The men pulled in another gentleman—Gerald—an "associate" who'd been out at the front tables. Gerald was less than happy about the "invitation" to the game but also knew that refusal was not an option. _Another bit of "nightly entertainments" to sap up a quarter of my profit. With the risks from Rizz's other rackets dragging me down with, Rizz's deal lacks the initial glamour he sold me on..._ But then Gerald stared around the table, warily examining Ray's many ringed fingers before casting an eye at Edward... _Well, at least there's a new target—so I don't think they'll expect me to lose all my money._

Once all were ready, four men sat at the table: Edward, Gerald, Ray, and Angelo.

The first hand Edward had two sixes.

Ray, three queens.

Gerald, three two's.

Angelo, a pair of eights and a pair of nines.

Angelo gave a delighted laugh when the others folded. Gerald laughed along, too. He knew what role to play. Ray said nothing, and Edward smiled politely—being careful not show any teeth. Ray and the other men in the room seemed appeased by the first round. There had been some doubt about Edward, and certainly, some doubt still remained but...

_Chump wanting to play a'big-and-bad with the bosses._

_He might be good enough to beat Mr. G—but Rizz said to go easy on Mr. G tonight. Took too much the last time—gotta respect good business relations in all._

_Kid's too pretty to take losing so easily—when they're that pretty, they're either whiners or shysters..._

When the cards were low the next round, Edward won, but he made sure to make his face obvious. He had three kings. He tapped his fingers on the table as he looked at his cards. The other three men took note.

Again, not a surprise.

But then, afterward... Edward didn't suffer any big losses.

Gerald and Angelo got into something of a betting war, each raising the other. Ray and Edward had already folded near the beginning. Gerald had the better hand. When they both finally laid down their hands, the tension in the room visibly escalated. Gerald was sweating. Eight hundred dollars had been at stake. _They don't like it when I win..._ Gerald laughed nervously.

The next round Ray won 400 back from Gerald—and Gerald had bet high on a double ace. Ray had a triple.

Gerald had bet high—not because he had good cards—but because... _I need to lose something. Win too much—and I won't be leaving—I don't care how much control Rizz think he has over Ray—Angelo lets him get away with every last fuckin'..._

Edward was on guard—and yet, he wasn't ready to leave yet. He needed the money, and there was much to be had. Also, neither Ray nor Angelo's thoughts were particularly dangerous.

Instead, their thoughts were _confident_ , as were the thoughts of the bystanders in the room.

In the next round Edward won four hundred.

He lost two hundred after that.

Then one hundred.

Then he won three hundred—Angelo and Ray pushed over the chips angrily.

Then Edward won seven hundred—but not from Ray or from Angelo—from a raised bet with Gerald.

Ray and Angelo laughed as Gerald groaned and pushed his chips toward Edward, and then he stood. "Sorry, gentlemen, and I think I'd better call it a night." He swallowed audibly. "I'm out of cash, and the cats are starting to sound, you know? I need to make it home before the frau burns my socks," he tried to joke.

No one laughed. Instead, Ray stared at him silently.

Edward broke the silence. "See you another time, Gerald. Maybe we'll have a round on some other night," he spoke pleasantly.

His ploy worked. Ray and Angelo's minds turned to the sizable pile in front of Edward. Angelo stared dealing out new cards as Gerald made his way nervously but quickly out the back door.

And then the betting got intense.

Edward lost one hundred in the next round. Angelo lost 300.

Then Edward lost another hundred, but Ray lost 300.

Edward saw that they were trying to keep their losses even. Their thoughts were growing more aggressive. Their goal was to snuff him, and they hadn't expected it to be anything of a challenge—and now their thoughts were changing.

 _Have to rattle the little shit._ Ray cracked his many ringed knuckles.

 _Don't he know who he's fucking with?_ Angelo's prior sense of control was beginning to ebb.

Edward grinned back at him. _A_ _vampire_ _, dear Angelo, a vampire._

And then Edward had a straight flush.

Even better, Ray had a full house.

The betting was up to 1000—Edward already had 1000 from the rounds. This would finish his evening, and then tomorrow the car.

There were gasps in the room when Edward laid his cards down.

Ray's jaw was clenched in a hard line—he pushed his chips across the table roughly.

Meanwhile, Angelo was trying to calm Ray, "Rimarrà. Non ti preoccup'." Angelo patted Ray's flexed shoulder.

But then Edward stood. "My apologies, gentleman, but I _must_ be going."

Angelo's eyes widened in alarm as Ray stood. "You—sit. Nobody just a'walks off after a—"

"Eh, no, no, no!" Angelo cut in. "You want to test Lady Luck, a'no? With a winning streak like yours, you should give it another round or two," he urged. _Ray can use his trick card or whatever but if another body ends up in the river over a goddamn game, I don't want Rizz on_ _my_ _ass._

Edward surveyed Ray's thoughts carefully. He was angry—but he wasn't beyond reason.

"I'm sorry if you perceive it to be rude, gentlemen, but I must be on my way," Edward repeated in a slow, confident tone.

And just like that:

Angelo snapped—a command instantly registered by Ray. _No one walks away less I say._

Ray's thoughts were cold in their mechanical progression. _Pull. Aim._

And even though Edward knew it was coming, he couldn't move. Because even at the last millisecond, he was still hoping for an alternative.

 _F-i-r-e._ Ray clicked the pistol and the bullet shot.

A deafening crack filled the room. The bullet hit the center of Edward's chest and rebounded. The bullet hit the opposing wall.

The room stopped. The other men just stared at him. Edward reached down to feel the spot where the bullet had touched. He had a hole in the fabric of his shirt.

Ray raised his arm to shoot again.

 _And now Edward would have to remove the witnesses..._ He smashed the overhanging light. The room faded into black. Edward killed the two sidekicks first—Jacopo and Reg.

Ray was firing without restraint, screaming sounds that weren't words. Edward crushed his his windpipe with single punch to the throat. Finally, he turned to Angelo, who was groping about and slashing wildly at the unseen terror in the darkness. Edward approached him with audible footsteps.

Angelo slashed at him with the knife, and Edward let the blade connect—and crack—on his marble skin. Edward heard the snap of Angelo's wrist as the pressure in the bone gave way. Angelo screeched, but Edward threw him down on the floor. "You messed with the wrong person," Edward growled furiously into his ear.

"You—you are no—what are...?" Angelo's voice stuttered and trembled in terror.

"Ah, you're right," Edward answered. "I am not a person."

And then Edward bit into his neck.

He drank.

\+ l + l +

The following morning he won the Phantom at the auction for just under six thousand dollars.

Edward made sure to sit next to the other key bidder. The man had intended to bet higher—the Phantom was certainly worth it—but there was something about the stranger sitting next to him. The man felt a chill run up and down his spine every time he raised his number, because in the periphery of his eye, he could see Edward staring directly at him.

 _Shouldn't be intimidated. No reason to, but..._ The man gave another sidelong glance in Edward's direction, only to find himself shivering again. _With that hat dipped low—can't really see much—but those eyes..._

\+ l + l +

Edward pushed through the gears with ease as he drove east out of the city. Once he finally crossed over the Mississippi, he picked up speed. Behind him the sun set over the St. Louis skyline.

Edward gazed at the structure for a few long minutes before abruptly pulling the car off onto the small shoulder.

He pulled the letter out of his pocket, slit the end, and retrieved the thin piece of paper inside.

It was Carlisle's writing:

 _How think ye? If a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray? And if so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray._ _Matthew 18:12-13_

Edward sat for a moment. He gazed out toward the darkening horizon. He gazed out and tried to feel whatever he was supposed to feel as the "problematic sheep." He tried to feel the compunction to return—to play the prodigal on his knees—because there was a part of him that wanted to go back, throw himself down, and lose himself in the bonds of family.

But he just felt lonely and ungrateful and empty.

Edward crumpled the paper in the palm of his hand, tossed the wad out the window, and made a u-turn in the car.

He drove west.

\+ l + l +

March 5, 2005

\+ l + l +

When Edward returned home the next day, he went straight to the garage. He didn't want to go to the house—Peter and Charlotte were there.

Rosalie and Emmett were in the garage with Emmett playing the assistant while Rosalie did some maintenance under Edward's Vanquish. As Edward walked in, Rosalie rolled out from under the front of the Vanquish, dirt and oil smeared across the cloth in her palm. In stark contrast, every golden hair was in place and her appearance was perfect. "Babe, can you get me that bolt?" she called to Emmett.

The silver circle zoomed across the garage.

Rosalie had it in her hand and rolled back under the car in the next second. "So, it's really nice of you to join us, Edward—spend time with your family and all," Rosalie muttered from underneath the car, while the rhythmic clickety-clack of her adjustments filled the room.

"You're welcome," Edward responded flatly.

"How's Bella?" Emmett asked, _Bella with the nice butt—_ he imitated Bella's walk while noticeably swaying his behind from side to side with a shit-eating grin stretched across his face.

Edward frowned at him but couldn't really take any offense. It was _Emmett_ , after all—and besides, he was too... _happy_ to be bothered. Edward answered him lightly but with an added dose of his typical cynicism, "I'm sure that both she and the rest of my patients would be a good deal safer if we met our guests elsewhere."

At his words, Rosalie thrust herself out from under the Vanquish. "You've got to be kidding me—now we're not allowed to have house guests over?"

Emmett pursed his lips and turned to Edward. _Pretty please and a bread-and-butter pickle, try not to piss her off?_

Edward ignored him. "It would be preferable if we _visited_ friends who drink from humans—instead of them coming here."

Rosalie sniffed derisively. "Edward, you complain even when we visit the Denalis—much less anyone else."

Emmett cut in then, "Aw, come on, now, Rosie. Tanya harasses poor Eddo until he can't take it anymore." He turned to face Edward with one hand on his hip and the other hand with his index finger pointed at Edward. "And Edward, man—you do NOT have to take that. Don't let that _woman_ bring you down, because even though we're _men_ —we deserve," Emmett's eyes squished shut and his voice went high in an Aretha Franklin imitation, "R.E.S.P.E.C.T!" He finished with a flourish of the index finger.

Edward rolled his eyes.

Rosalie pushed out completely from underneath the car and sat up, staring irritably at Edward. "You know, maybe if you weren't so focused on your little _twat cantante_ , you wouldn't—"

"— _enough_ , Rosalie."

"Now, now, now, boys and girls—Edward doesn't have to like Tanya and her weird kitty fetish," Emmett lectured.

Edward lost the force of his anger as he subtlety raised an eyebrow at Emmett.

Emmett gave him a warning look, even as he grinned at him. _Not_ _my_ _fault if you leave that shit lying around in obvious places... like closed desk drawers._

Rosalie ignored the exchange going on between the two. "Whatever—but Edward, you need to get over the _human_."

Edward opened his mouth to make some spiteful retort, but nothing came out. His entire response was so visceral. _NO_. _He didn't want to get over Bella. He_ loved _her..._

Rosalie, who was carefully watching his face, let out a shocked gasp. "You did not! —you've fallen for that little twit, haven't you?" She stood in a fury. _You won't_ _change_ _her Edward. Not only is she not worth it—but her humanity isn't worth your petty little infatuation._ She crouched low, seeming ready to spring at him as she seethed with anger.

Edward stared back at her, saying nothing. He would dodge the second she chose to spring.

Emmett looked at a total loss as to what to do, changing his mind between getting in the middle to mediate and running as far away as possible.

Rosalie was on the verge of leaping just as Alice materialized with Esme at her side. "Emmett," she pointed at him, " you are taking _him_ hunting." She pointed at Edward, and then she turned to the still fuming Rosalie, "Rosalie, if you would put down that wrench and come with me..." she urged softly.

Rosalie turned away from her to eye the Vanquish. _I don't care how perfect it is, Edward can pay some clunker to fix it..._

Edward sucked in a breath, even as Alice spoke with greater urgency, "We just got our preseason samples from the agent in Italy. Those snake skin boots that you wanted came."

The image of the boots filled Rosalie's mind. She hoped the agent had passed her special orders on to the designer as directed. Rosalie hated when the boots were wide in the ankles—and then her thoughts turned back to Edward—but then back to the boots—and then to how conniving Alice could be. She dropped the wrench by the side of the Vanquish in a huff, before turning to march toward the house. Emmett and Alice made to follow her.

Alice gave him a quick wink as she skipped behind the couple.

Esme stayed behind. She walked up to him and gently cupped his face in her hands, smiling at him with an outward show of excitement and pride. _If you care for her Edward, there is nothing but good that can come from this change in you._ She gazed into his eyes as if looking for something. She thought he looked... _happy_. _Really, truly happy,_ she concluded. _You deserve this, Edward._

Edward smiled softly back at her. He didn't know how to handle her thoughts. "I'd better go get ready for hunting with Emmett, also I..." he trailed off.

"Go hunting with Emmett today while the sun's out," Esme said. _Then go visit her._

"Perhaps..." Edward didn't know what to say. He didn't know how Esme could just assume that he'd been to Bella's. He'd made sure to clear off the scent...

Esme kissed his forehead and gave him a final smile before heading back into the house. In her mind, there were no thoughts or worries of the practical obstacles or the complex moral questions.

There was only a picture of Edward's smile.

\+ l + l +

Emmett dragged Edward off to hunt on the far side of the Park. Edward simply wanted to catch something quick and fast, whereas Emmett wanted to find some larger predators.

"It can even be a _little_ bear." _Not like teddy bear-sized, but you know like... kangaroo-sized?_

"When have you _ever_ settled for a small bear?" Edward asked skeptically.

Emmett looked thoughtful for a minute as he scanned his memories, but then he grinned as Edward groaned. "That time that Rose was all impatient!" _And she wore the mini skirt which rode up high when she tackled that lynx..._

"Yeah, I got it, Em. Fair enough," Edward talked over his thoughts, squinting irritably as he tried in vain to shut out Emmett's memory.

But then they heard a sound to the north, the soft padding of paws and faint scratching of dragged claws. It was drawing closer. Emmett took off in the next instant. He found his bear less than ten seconds later.

Edward let him be and took advantage of a cluster of nearby deer.

Edward returned just as Emmett was finishing up with the bear. His torn shirt showed the telltale signs of "playing with his food." After Emmett had finished, he turned back to Edward, flopping happily back onto the moss-covered forest floor. "So, what's up with Bella?"

Unlike the rest of his family, Emmett almost never pried—he wouldn't have asked unless he was generally concerned. Thus, Edward felt obligated to reply. "I'm not sure," he answered finally.

"But you care for her? Like Rose said?" _It's obvious you're happy. Really obvious—really, really, really, really obvious—well, for you, anyway._

Edward turned away from him, remaining silent.

 _Dude, it's okay to talk about shit._ "Come on, she doesn't have to get half-eaten by a bear for you to admit that you like having her around."

Edward sighed at Emmett's implication. "It would be better for her if i didn't care for her at all."

Emmett laughed. " _Probably_."

Edward frowned at him.

Emmett laughed again at his expression. "Come on, ole bro, you're a vampire. You're not ugly. She might just like you, too, you know—despite your cheerful personality."

The memory of Bella's low moan and the whisper of his name came back to him, and Edward smiled involuntarily, even as he tried to hide it.

"HAH! You _know_ she does!" Emmett declared in triumph, but then he paused, examining Edward curiously. "And just how do you _know_ , anyway? And what exactly do you do in those little shrinky sessions?" _On the shrinky couch, no less..._

Edward shook his head at him. "We _talk_ , Emmett. I'm her _therapist_."

"Well, maybe you should _talk_ about vampire stuff with her—see what she thinks of the whole death immortal status?" Emmett half-teased. _And especially with Alice's visions, she might just be up for it..._

Edward froze before stiffly replying, "Rose would disagree with you."

Emmett cringed, mentally imagining Rose's reaction. "She'll come around—she's just protective of the family—and besides, it's not like you're planning on telling Bella anytime soon, are you?"

Edward ignored his question. "But Rose is right."

Emmett looked frustrated. "About what?"

"I am dangerous to Bella."

Emmett nodded. "Yeah, how you planning on working that one out?" _Can't exactly spank that butt , can you?_

"I don't know." He ignored Emmett's thought.

Emmett nodded, sorting through his own thoughts for a minute before asking, "But you want to be with her?" He looked torn on his brother's behalf.

Edward answered honestly, "I do."

"Well, that's something."

"It is."

\+ l + l +

Edward almost didn't go into Bella's room that night—her light was still on.

But after creeping up to peer through the panes of glass, he saw that she had simply fallen asleep without remembering to flick off the light. Thus, Edward carefully pushed the window up. This time he'd planned ahead. He'd brought a small tube of oil to quiet the aged frame. When he had finished applying it, the window pushed up soundlessly.

He stepped inside, peering about and wondering what could possibly have led to the change in Bella's sleeping order. The first oddity he noticed was that Bella had fallen asleep with headphones on. Edward walked over and carefully popped open Bella's CD player. Edward snorted as he read the band name. _Incubus._

Bella just didn't seem like the _Incubus_ type.

Much less... The connection made Edward feel slightly ashamed, because here he was crawling into her bedroom at night just like one of the incubi of legend. But then again—the CD—it could mean nothing. _Coincidence?_

_Or not..._

Edward began furiously searching Bella's room, seeking to find clues on what Bella's day had been like. On the floor of her closet, her boots had traces of beach sand and crushed shell—she had been to the beach. Today was the day of group trip. She had gone with friends.

Down the hall outside her bathroom, Edward found the clothes that she'd worn for the day, a hoodie, an undershirt, and some jeans. He had expected to take in her sweet scent, but rather his nose wrinkled as he smelled a foreign presence. It smelled vaguely... animal-like? It was as if Bella had rolled around with a great slobbery hound. But Bella didn't really like pets... _"We stopped after the toilet became a goldfish graveyard,"_ she had told him.

And then he returned to her room. Carefully monitoring the beat of her heart, Edward sat gently on the mattress, a light creaking of springs being the only sound. Beneath his gaze, Bella was curled up on her side. She must have showered just before bed because her hair was wet and darker than usual against her almost-white skin. She was completely silent, her warm breath pulsing soft and even in and out of her nostrils. And then Edward noticed her hands. They were scraped, though no blood had been shed. Bella must have fallen.

Bella falling—it worried him, and it didn't help when he realized that it could have been worse than a simple case of scraped palms. Edward carefully brushed his fingertips over the back of her hand, gently flipping it over to examine the roughened skin.

Bella's heartbeat audibly jumped.

Edward considered backing away, but her breathing was still steady...

He pulled back slightly when she shivered under his cool touch.

And then Bella's heart rate picked up and her face contorted in what looked undeniably like fear...

"Jac...ob? What's wronn...?" she mumbled in her sleep.

Edward clasped her much smaller hand in his. She was dreaming—she wasn't awake—and by the tenor of her voice and her quickened pulse, he could tell that it was no normal dream. It was a nightmare.

He carefully ran his hand across her forehead.

"R... run..." she murmured. Her lips pressed tightly together and her brow furrowed.

And then a much clearer, "Why?" She sounded confused and frightened.

"Jacob!"

Bella twisted in her bed, her hand reached out, grasping onto the bottom of Edward's shirt.

And then a low murmur, "Tr..."

And then her heart rate escalated, and Edward was out of her grasp and flying out the window and then pulling it shut behind him.

Just in the nick of time, too, because in the next instant, Bella's body convulsed. "No!" she screamed, lunging forward, her eyes open as she stared about, breathing heavily and wide awake in her bed.

Edward watched her movements from the darkened forest outside.

Bella seemed to shake her head to clear her thoughts before stumbling out of bed to turn out the light. Back under her covers, she lay down with her arms clutching her sides.

On the grass outside her window, Edward was in something close to a state of shock—if vampires could go into shock.

No, she had not said "Jacob" the way she had said his name the night before.  
No, she had made no mention of vampires.  
No, she had not said Edward's name at all.

And yet, Edward was certain Bella's nightmare had been about him.

\+ l + l +

March 7, 2005

\+ l + l +

The sun had been a cage for the entire weekend. Home wasn't much better. The entire family was focused on playing host to Peter and Charlotte. Edward supposed he could have left—he could have tramped about in the forest or even driven out to some stretch of remote coastline, but he couldn't leave. Foremost in his mind was Bella's protection—because even if Peter and Charlotte showed no inklings of thirst, Edward knew how easy it was for the casual accident or a moment's weakness to send all awry.

Moreover, Jasper was at his worst when Peter was around. They were friends, yes, and Jasper had helped Peter escape Maria's coven with Charlotte, but their interactions were still so _regimented_ in nature. Peter tended to defer to Jasper—and Jasper accepted the deference with ease and a touch of… Edward called it self-righteousness.

Jasper preferred to lead rather than follow—but Carlisle was the guiding sage in the Cullen household while Jasper, though the second-oldest, was undoubtedly the weakest link. As much as Jasper benefited from the emotional peace that came with the Cullens' vegetarian lifestyle, he was never completely comfortable with the family's internal dynamic—or forever forgoing human blood. It was Alice that bound Jasper to the household because Jasper would risk everything for Alice. Now, more than ever, Edward understood that.

But at the moment, Jasper was being a prick.

Jasper, Emmett, and Peter were sitting on the couch in the living room in front of the game on the wide screen that Emmett had selected. Edward had taken the armchair by the window—and yet Jasper kept drawing him into conversation.

"Edward likes Roooooosevelet," Jasper elongated the "oo" sound for extra effect.

Peter chuckled at Jasper's exaggeration.

Edward set down his book and frowned at Jasper. "Forgive me for not regretting that millions were relieved from destitution and starvation."

"Any race or tribe or Big Bug who refuses to fight isn't worth my time," Jasper responded, holding up a biography of Genghis Khan to state his preference.

"How very nice, Jasper."

"I ain't nice. You think these here scars come from bein' a nice fella?"

Peter smirked triumphantly, like Jasper had just one-upped Edward.

"So, might equals right?" Edward asked in a bored tone.

Jasper frowned at him. "Fighting doesn't have to be physical—it can be with wits or skill or—"

"Charisma," Peter cut him off with the compliment.

Jasper laughed.

"I'm sure Alice would adore your historical perspective—especially should you apply it to women," Edward retorted.

Neither Alice nor Charlotte was present. Alice had dragged Charlotte out to find on an "outfit or two."

Jasper narrowed his eyes at him. _Alice ain't some weak human female—_ and then the image in his mind _—Bella—_ but then he quickly diverted as he sensed the spike in Edward's anger _._ "I think your _patients_ are affecting your sense."

Edward shrugged, refusing to take the bait.

"Why do you do it?" Peter wanted to know about Edward's new profession. "I'm not saying it's not better than high school, but it can't be much better." _I know Carlisle does it… but I'd taken Edward for more of a…_

"It's worthwhile," Edward answered shortly.

"I understand Carlisle to an extent—he doesn't know any better, but Edward, you've _tasted_. You _know_ ," Peter argued incredulously. "I just don't understand how you can be that close to _them_."

"I'm always that close to them," Edward touched a finger towards his own head. "So is he." He nodded toward Jasper.

Neither Jasper nor Peter said anything. Jasper was intent on keeping his mouth shut. He'd promised Alice not to goad Edward about therapy or Bella, and he was afraid he'd already crossed a line.

Peter was waiting for Jasper to speak.

The tension was interfering with Emmett's sports viewing, so naturally he had to break the ice. "Edward has _fun_ in therapy time," Emmett added. "Some of his patients are _nice._ " He grinned at Edward, implication in his voice.

Edward's jaw clenched as he stared at his brother. _Leave it to Emmett to…_

But Peter's curiosity was already piqued. "You're attached to one of the humans?"

"I try to be compassionate toward all my patients."

"Yeah, _compassion._ That's what the kids are calling it these days..." Emmett snorted in amusement.

Edward had to restrain a growl.

Peter went on with his questioning. "Are you planning on changing her? She would be your mate?" His face was thoughtful. _If there were ever a vampire that could use a mate…_

"I won't change any human."

Peter shook his head in disbelief, before turning to Jasper. "Well, the change hasn't occurred…?" _A human as a mate?_ "He's not... has he?"

Jasper looked up and stared at Edward with assessing eyes. _He has been rather happy... and Alice has been keeping me busy and out of the house which is suspicious..._ "Edward'll hafta answer that," Jasper finally said.

"Really, a _human_?"

Edward was having a hard time keeping the anger out of his voice. "It really is none of your business."

Peter smirked coolly under his gaze. _The last time we visited he seemed perfectly fine—but now, yes, it would have to be… for the change to be so great, for him to be so different._ "You have nothing to fear, Edward—although you will have to change her."

Edward stood.

"Sit down, Edward," Jasper ordered, effusing calm authority throughout the room. "You're misunderstanding Peter. Let'im say his piece."

Edward turned on Jasper. "I misunderstood his _thoughts_ , did I?"

Peter stared at Edward with a touch of astonishment and some reproach. "I wasn't saying you should change her just to change her—newborns are nothing to trifle with. In fact, you've probably already heard what I am about to say. It's just you probably never understood it until now." _There are some things you just have to experience to understand..._

"Fine, speak," Edward spat and sat back down on the couch. Jasper joined him.

"It's just… she's your mate now," Peter said.

"She's a human—she's obviously not my _mate_."

Peter sighed. "I wasn't talking about _fucking_. I'm talking about the _bond_. Vampires aren't _homo sapiens_ —not even close. After our change, we're a different species—and like other species, we don't mate like humans do. Really, in our mating instincts we're sort of like doves or hawks or pigeons."

Emmett snorted. _Pigeons._ "Red eyes, too," He laughed at his own musing.

Peter continued, "Hawks and certain other species mate for life—and when their mate dies, it's uncommon for them to mate again."

"The point being, that when we find our _real_ mate..." Jasper paused, recalling a memory of the emptiness he'd felt with Maria, before pushing it aside and continuing, "...it's _permanent_ ," Jasper concluded.

Peter nodded. "But that's why I said you'd have to change her—if you're bound to her—there can be _no one else_ —if she were to _die_ …"

"She's not going to die," Edward interrupted, although his voice betrayed his fear—Bella was so fragile.

"It's just that humans don't mate for life. _We_ do—so how could you even know if you are meant to be mates unless she's been changed?"

Edward remained silent. _He didn't know._

And then Jasper, sensing Edward's disquiet, changed the subject.

\+ l + l +

When Edward visited Bella that night, he only stayed for a minute.

A minute was long enough to softly press his lips against hers once more.

And to once more hear the soft acceleration of her heart and the murmur of his name escaping her lips.

He had told himself it would be more of a test for himself than for her.

And now it was obvious; while Bella had passed the test, he had failed. Because the relief of hearing his name again from her lips had been overwhelming. The nightmare: purged. Fulfillment burst from the black spot in his chest. The pulsing force of warmth swirled up from his toes to knees to abdomen to almost make him forget the burn in his throat. And he wanted more. The distinct, pure need to possess her—to own her in every way—to fill her up and mold into her—it would not recede, and if anything, he felt it...

 _Stronger_.

\+ l + l +

March 8, 2005

\+ l + l +

Edward didn't go to see Bella on Monday night. Instead he forced himself to stay at home where his consequent behavior had Peter and Charlotte more than convinced he was the world's first insane vampire. Esme eventually suggested that he go "hunt or play something nice on the piano."

It would appear that he was ruining Jasper's visit with his friends.

So instead, he made his rounds, checking on his other patients. Which helped and didn't. Most of his patients were fine, but a few held his attention longer.

Maggie was in a tizzy over Charlie. She hadn't seen him because they'd rescheduled her appointment for Thursday. She hoped Bella had also rescheduled...

John spent a good hour composing a letter to Jeremy. This made Edward happy, but then John had his mortified assistant proofread it before sending it out. They'd have to talk about that...

And Ben was... Ben came with news of Bella. The group trip on Saturday had led to another—and Ben, Connor, and Mike were joining Angela, Bella, Jessica, and Lauren to make a trip to Port Angeles that evening. In fact, from what Edward could tell, it had been Bella who'd suggested the trip. She'd suggested it with a quick wink at Angela—a wink that Ben had caught.

Ben knew it wasn't a date—it was a group thing—but he couldn't help but wonder if he and Angela might wander off together once the girls finished trying on dresses. He wondered if she'd let him try and kiss her. He'd never kissed anyone before...

Edward knew that he was definitely going to Port Angeles that evening. First of all, he had Ben to consider. Second, he didn't trust Newton around Bella in a school setting—much less a non-school setting, and lastly, Peter and Charlotte would be leaving that evening. If they went anywhere near Port Angeles...

Edward waited for Peter and Charlotte to say their final goodbyes, and then he got in his Volvo and drove to his Port Angeles office.

\+ l + l +

"Angela—I'm not saying it just to say it—it's not a big deal."

"Bella, you shouldn't have to leave..."

"I _want_ to go to the bookshop. I need to buy a book for the book club, anyway—and if it gives you some time alone with Ben, then all the better." She gave Angela a knowing grin.

"Are you sure...?" Angela was very torn.

"I'll go catch Lauren and Jessica and the guys at the restaurant afterward. No big deal. You and Ben can hang out by yourselves..." and this time she winked at Angela.

"Bella..."

"I'm leaving. Ben is _that way_." She pointed across the street to where Ben and the rest of the guys were examining the sports apparel in a store window.

"Thanks, Bella," Angela said softly.

Edward watched through Angela's eyes as Bella waved and made her way down the street, and then Angela nervously turned to walk toward the guys. Edward wanted to continue following Bella, but... this was clearly an important moment for Ben, and Edward recognized that if he continued to track Bella, he would be doing it to appease his own whims... so, he focused on staying in Angela's mind.

Ben smiled up at her as she approached.

She smiled back.

"Hey, Ang," he greeted.

"Hi."

And then silence.

Angela spoke while examining the cracks in the concrete. "Were you guys planning on going somewhere next?"

Ben scratched the back of his head. _"Guys" so that probably means she doesn't want to be alone with me, right? Or maybe just not yet. We could still hang in a group..._ "Yeah, that's fine. We can go with the rest of them to check out some more shops... that could be fun, right?"

Angela looked down. "Oh, I thought..." she trailed off. "Never mind." She shook her head.

"I'm sorry—I assumed—always—just—" Ben stopped and took a deep breath. "What would you like to do?"

Angela still didn't look at him as she said, "Oh, I thought we could go for a walk or something... like along the pier?" She glanced up at him shyly.

 _Pier. Pier. PIER?! Uh, YEAH._ "Yeah!" Ben exclaimed, and then checking his excitement—because Mike and Connor had turned to stare. "Yeah, that'd be great. I like the pier. Oooh... just one sec."

"Connor?" He gave him the _you've-been-my-best-friend-since-we-were-eight_ look.

Connor rolled his eyes, "Yeah, I'm getting a ride home with Mike."

"Okay, see you later," and then he turned back to Angela.

Angela smiled at him.

And then Ben, feeling a surge of bravery, grasped her palm and pulled them both forward.

They walked on the pier for almost an hour. Ben made a show of buying Angela cotton candy from a boardwalk vendor. They found a bench and sat down, taking turns tearing off the pink puffs, while they chatted about school and Forks and their friends.

"You know, I'm surprised Lauren came tonight..." Angela muttered while taking another handful.

"Why's that?" Ben asked through his own mouthful.

"Well, she doesn't really like Bella—or me."

"Lauren only likes Lauren."

"You know, I think she wants to go to the dance with Connor."

"Really?" Ben asked in surprise.

"Tyler told her he was still trying to ask Bella," Angela laughed. "Bella's been hiding from him."

"Wow, no wonder Lauren was giving her the death stare."

"Do you think Connor will say, 'yes?'"

Ben shrugged. "I don't know, honestly."

Angela nodded, chewing softly. Ben noticed a small bit of pink cotton candy fuzz glistening on the edge of her cheek.

"Hey, Ang, you got something... right there." He eyed the spot on her cheek.

Angela grinned at him. "Hey! That's what you get when you eat cotton candy." She reached up to brush at her cheek. "Better?" she asked.

"Nah, other side."

She tried again.

"Lower."

She laughed. "Are you lying to me?"

"No closer to your mouth."

She licked the edge of her mouth. The sight of her small pink tongue—and the two of them sitting so close together—all alone—Ben watched in a slight awe.

And yet she still hadn't gotten the tiny pink strand, so acting on instinct, Ben reached out, and using his thumb, wiped the candy strand aside.

He was cupping her face.

And he was so close.

She felt it too. Ben could hear the subtle uptake in her breathing.

Ben paused briefly before sputtering out, "I really like you, Ang."

She nodded just barely against his hand.

"Can I...?" He scooted closer, closing the distance between the two of them.

Angela moved forward and pressed her lips against his.

At first neither of them moved. They just stayed with their lips pressed together, but then Angela parted her lips every so softy and pushed against Ben's lips.

Ben involuntarily smiled at the new movement. He kissed her back and then they both separated, breathing heavily and smiling at each other.

Edward left them to their moment.

Leaning back into his desk chair, he wondered what it would be like to kiss Bella that way. To not merely press his lips against hers, but to look up afterwards and see her eyes staring back into his. To anticipate the emotion there. To risk rejection. To risk defeat. To risk love. Edward groaned as he set his elbows on the desk in front of him. He really was beyond himself at this point—he'd made a point to stay clear-headed and logical ever since...

Edward realized in surprise how late it had gotten. He'd been so focused on Ben and Angela.

Well, the logical thing to do now would be to figure out where Bella was and make sure she'd made it to the book shop alright. He opened out his mind and began searching.

\+ l + l +

Five minutes later and Edward still had yet to find her. Bella was not in the bookstore. The shopkeeper was closing up a few minutes early since no customers were present. Nor was Bella in the company of the friends she was supposed to meet. They had already gone to the restaurant and finished eating. Edward listened with disgust as one girl, Lauren Mallory, insisted they go home early.

"She's with Ben and Angela, I'm sure."

Connor looked doubtful. "I think that's pretty unlikely. I mean..."

But then Lauren put her hand on his arm, squeezing it as she pulled herself closer to him. "Hey, Connor, you want a ride home with me? Mike can take Jess..." she offered somewhat coyly.

Connor forgot all about Bella.

Edward pulled at his hair in frustration, as he expanded his search somewhat frantically, hopping from one mind to the next in the surrounding area. No one had seen her—or at the very least, no one was thinking about her. The suspense was driving Edward crazy. He covetously eyed the window. Though the light had changed, simmering down into the more subdued golds and pinks of sunset, Edward calculated that at least another ten minutes of daylight remained.

And yet he needed to find her. He sensed it. He wasn't sure if it was simple love-struck protectiveness, paranoia, or something deeper. But he needed to find her.

He started leaping from mind to mind in an ever-widening radius around the bookstore. A tall woman was wondering about a slight girl with brown hair walking in front of her—but then the girl turned— _not Bella._

Edward gave up on the search within a few minutes. _The sunset would come soon enough._ Set on his new course, he grabbed a hooded coat someone had left behind in the waiting room closet and headed out into the daylight, hood pulled forward and hands tucked into opposite arm pits. He walked quickly and ran when he could, but the trek between his office and the book store was busy with shoppers and tourists enjoying the pleasant evening.

He was three streets down from the bookshop when he caught the first traces of her distinct scent. He turned warily as he realized Bella had gone the wrong direction—toward the warehouses in the commercial part of the port.

_Only Bella..._

Edward moved with new purpose. The rest of the world blurred away and the ever-strengthening pull of Bella's scent guided him as an arrow.

Ten or so blocks ahead he heard the brusque beat of footsteps—and then thoughts. _Hope Lonnie knows what the hell he's doing. Scaring young girls is only funny when they don't flip out and call the cops—or unleash mace in your eyes. Yeah, I hope Lonnie knows—but then again Lonnie's always seemed so..._

A snarl erupted from Edward as he saw the vision of Bella's wary face in the man's mind.

And then the man and his companion turned the corner to see Bella—white-faced and trembling as she ground to a stop in front of them. She looked frantically from the men already behind her and back again to the men blocking her path forward.

Lonnie—the unspoken leader of the group—marched up to her. The rest of the men stared on in drunken fascination. As Edward searched their minds, he realized they had no idea what Lonnie was capable of. They just expected to fuck with the girl a little. Maybe scare her...

Lonnie was reveling in the moment. _This was not the first time he'd done this—Bella was not the first girl he'd cornered all alone in a dark alley._

Edward flung himself up onto the roof and was flying across the rooftops.

As Lonnie neared her, Bella stepped back—but he moved quickly. _First, he'd catch her like a tiny mouse in a trap, keep her straight and still, and then he would feel her tremble as he pushed her into the brick and trapped her sweet young flesh against it, and then he would get Jay—Jay would do it—to pin up her arms and then he'd rip out any barrier in the way. They could all play..._ His knobby hand reached out.

Her jaw set, Bella took a swing at him, stumbling but catching herself at the last minute. Bella's face did not falter, however—her eyes looked furious, and her movements remained somehow controlled despite her clumsiness.

Lonnie and the other men laughed at her. Lonnie was loving it. _Some fight in this one... all the better._

Lonnie grabbed again. He caught Bella's ponytail, yanking her towards him.

Flailing wildly as she tried to free herself, Bella raised her free arm and threw her fist. It connected—hitting Lonnie on the lower jaw—but then Lonnie retaliated by slapping her hard across the face as he still held her tight by the hair. Then Lonnie shoved her—throwing her down onto the concrete in a fury.

_She looks just perfect that way._

Nothing else could have stopped Edward in that instant. Nothing except for the tear of her skin when Bella's arm hit a sharp rock as she rolled, and Edward felt—saw—heard— _smelled_ the splitting of skin and eruption of gorgeous crimson liquid as the scent filled the alleyway.

The scent of Bella's blood.

Edward stood as still as a dead man could with his mind, body, and heart locked in a three-way war. In his throat, the demon seemed to leap forth, black and vile and rabid and vicious with its lust for the ripe fruit that was so close. It wanted to slice and tear through the pale flesh and rip open and see pink and find the point where the blood ran blue and waste not a drop more of the ambrosial nectar leaking thickly onto the dirt and rock.

The rational part of him told him that he should run away—his instincts were too wild—he could try to take each man out—he could kill them one by one—they deserved it—but in doing so—he would risk Bella—the sweetness of her blood—he would kill her. But then Edward also realized that if he didn't do something now—Lonnie might do it for him—and then the demon said that Lonnie shouldn't have her. Edward deserved her.

_She was his, was she not?_

And then Edward saw it. The bold but already defeated bravery in her eyes as she stared up defiantly at Lonnie while he leered over. Bella's eyes were bright but dark and determined, as if she knew what was coming, had accepted it, and would not be cowered. She would fight.

Edward wasn't sure how it happened, but the black space in his chest—the empty void where his dormant heart dozed—it seemed to squeeze, to pull inward and contract like a fist, before exploding outward, supernova in the way it overcame his mind, his instincts, and pulled him forward in a wild leap into the alley.

He hit Lonnie with a single swipe, sending him crashing into the opposing steel wall. He heard a clang and a crack, but he didn't care.

He didn't care because before the other men in the alley could ever register his presence, he had Bella in his arms and was running again. The surrounding buildings became a blur. If anyone saw him, they mistook him for the wind.

All he felt was Bella's warm body clutched to his cold frame. All he smelled with the trickling of red on her wrist. All he knew was the struggle of ice and fire and red and black.

And then they were there, the door flung open, down the hallway, and he was bending slightly, settling her onto the porcelain counter top in the office ladies' room.

He set her down, and yet she didn't let go. Bella seemed to cling to him all the more fiercely.

He realized he needed to save his air. The blood leaking down... he couldn't breathe in.

He spoke in a burst, "Let go—you need to wipe—your _arm_."

And then Bella looked up at him, looking into his black eyes with nothing but relief and comfort. Her grip loosened finally. Her fingers peeled away, and she leaned back onto the counter top. Her nostrils flared slightly, and then she looked down at her arm with distaste. "I'm bleeding."

She looked up at him. "I hate blood."

Edward wanted to laugh at the great irony, but instead he released a frustrated exhale that came out sounding like a sob.

Bella looked back up at him in alarm and with uncanny recognition. "Oh," she whispered.

Edward took steps back. "Bella—I—I just can't—I'll be in—my office," he managed to blurt out. And then he turned and fled down the hall, refusing to catch her expression as he left. He shut the door to his office quickly, trying his best to eliminate the potent aroma as he took a long cleansing breath as he sat down on the chaise.

Down the hall, he heard the sound of running water as the Bella washed off the dirt and dust and blood.

Edward felt nothing but self-hatred as he realized that he should be in there, helping her, caring for her—and yet all he could do was sit here, useless, while Bella tended her own wounds. He thought about going after the men. He wanted to destroy them. He wouldn't touch their blood. He would just pulverize their bones internally so that not a drop seeped out. They would just feel pain and more pain for every last sick thought—and then Lonnie... Edward was pretty sure he could withstand Lonnie's foul blood—enough to make him scream for hours.

His thoughts on punishment cut off when he heard Bella turn off the water, when she squeezed the knob on the bathroom door, when she walked slowly and with heavy breaths down the hall, and when she pulled open his door.

She stood, blinking blindly in the reflected moonlight from the bay, though Edward could see her clearly. Her hair was a mess. It had been in a pony tail when the evening began, but now strands stuck out at odd ends, and fuzzy curls framed the sides of her forehead. Her face was flushed yet so pale, a slight sheen of clean sweat on her cheekbones and brow. Her eyes looked determined yet not... There was none of the bravery Edward had seen out in the alleyway.

The shallow scrapes on her hand had clotted, but the long scratch on her wrist was still leaking—though just barely.

Edward couldn't breathe either way.

"How did you know where to find me?" Bella asked in a low whisper.

Edward didn't move from the chaise. He simply stared at her silently.

"Edward?"

Edward—still holding his breath—choked out, "Just—a—moment—please—please—Bella."

Eyes wide, Bella nodded slowly.

Edward dropped to his knees and threw his head out the window, taking in a long cleansing breath from the blast of seaside air. Then he spoke, "Bella, could you use the alcohol wipes? There's a first aid kit in the drawer in the end table. On your wrist, please?"

He heard the soft murmur of her assent from behind him—and then the full irony of the situation struck him—the total and complete ridiculousness of it—he with his head hanging out the window, not unlike some frat boy puking out the night's excesses—and she with her tranquil and collected demeanor despite night's near-traumatic events.

Behind him, Bella squirted the tube of disinfectant onto the long scratch and gently wiped away the lingering traces of red. Edward's nose detected when the alcohol reacted with the last drops of fresh blood, though his throat burned from the sweet absence.

"Bella, could you…?"

But she had already picked up the box of cotton gauze. Edward heard the soft rustle of her pulling the cotton from its box in the first aid kit. He turned, then, not bothering to move at anything close to a human pace as he drew to her side.

Bella didn't flinch at his speed.

"Let me help," he whispered, carefully clasping her soft forearm and picking up the roll of tape.

Bella started at his touch, her lips parting ever so slightly as her concentration snapped from the gauze on her arm to peer up at Edward.

Edward focused himself, being careful not to breathe as he gently pressed the strips over the line of the wound. Beneath the bandage, it was as if he could feel the energy of the individual molecules of blood, wanting to seep out, to push through the thin layer of clotting, to push out and roll down the pale, white flesh…

Edward swallowed back the venom in his throat as he stared fixedly into Bella's questioning eyes, and then, reluctantly, he pulled away. He stepped back, picking up the wad of sullied cotton balls and making his way to his desk. From the top drawer, he produced a small matchbox and a thin, clay artisan bowl. He tossed the cotton balls into the bowl, and then he drew out a single match, snapped it across the band of flint, and threw it in the bowl.

The contents of the bowl ignited with a sizzle.

Bella continued gazing at him through the flickers of flame, and Edward couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking—what she saw. Did she see some hellish wraith of the night? Dr. Jekyll gone Mr. Hyde? Or perhaps she saw the best—and worst—possible outcome. Perhaps she saw through it all—perhaps, she saw the truth?

When the cotton ball and remaining alcohol had sizzled into nothing but ashes, Edward tossed the soot and remnants out the window, kneeling down and leaning out to take another long draught of fresh air, and then Edward paused. He wanted to pull his head back inside. He wanted to see Bella, but he realized that he was afraid. He was a vampire—and yet he was terrified, because he didn't know how he could begin to explain, justify, or reconcile the evening's events.

Bella asked the same question she had asked before, "How did you know where to find me?" Her voice trembled this time as her lips forced out the words.

Edward, head still bent out the window, answered her dejectedly, "I don't know how to answer that."

And then Bella didn't say anything but she walked toward him, stopping and kneeling at his side. "You hit that _—guy_. Then he just..." She swallowed and added, "You ran so quickly."

Edward laughed darkly at the strange comedy of it. _Understatement of the year, Bella._

"You saved me," she whispered low and into his ear.

"Yes and no," Edward whispered sadly.

"You saved me," she repeated.

Edward simply shook his head.

Bella reached out, lightly placing her fingers on his shoulder.

Edward closed his eyes at the contact.

_She was touching him._

"Please just tell me, Edward."

"Tell you what?"

"How did you find me?"

Edward gave up. Third time was the charm, apparently. He sucked in a long breath of the fresh wind sweeping out from the sea, and then he turned to face her, looking head-on into her dark brown eyes. "I followed you," he told her.

Bella nodded slowly but looked confused. "How?"

"I followed your scent."

She nodded again and waited.

"I would have been there sooner but..." he trailed off, not wanting to expose himself further.

"My blood."

Edward stared at her.

"It was hurting you, wasn't it?"

"Yes and no."

"It's okay," she soothed.

Edward had never felt so confused. _Bella was comforting him. She had been violently attacked and almost raped and murdered and was now in the clutches of a crazed vampire, and yet she was comforting_ him _._

Bella looked carefully into his eyes then. "You weren't really born in 1977, were you?"

Edward turned away from her, taking another long breath as the wind swept up. "No."

"How old are you really?"

"Old."

From the corner of his eye, Bella gave him a frustrated frown. "You look younger, like my age."

"I am."

Bella didn't speak for a moment, and when Edward looked over at her, he saw that tears had formed in the corners of her eyes.

"Bella," he whispered in a pained voice—he had hurt her.

"You aren't being honest with me. You've lied to me." She was angry.

"I haven't lied to you—not really," Edward spoke gently.

Bella shook her head, a stray hair fixing itself to the wetness on her cheek.

Edward wanted to gently lift that hair. He wanted to affix it to its proper place. He wanted to sweep away the dewy manifestation of sadness on her cheeks.

And then Bella's eyes closed, and Edward heard the grating grinding of her teeth. She let out a long whimper, and then she slumped by his side. "I've been so, so stupid. How could I ever think...?" She broke off and embarrassed tears continued to flow down her cheeks.

"You're never stupid," Edward said, turning to meet her eyes.

She let loose a hollow laugh. "Oh—but—I am. You know, I imagined that you might—Oh God—never mind."

"Imagined what?" Edward asked softly.

Bella shook her head and leaned forward, her hand reaching over her brow to shield her teary eyes from view.

"Bella," Edward whispered.

She didn't say anything, but a strangled choke erupted from her chest.

"Bella?"

She started to turn, to stand, so she could walk away.

Edward caught her. He gently clutched her shoulders and pulled her back to him, while her hands gripped feebly—pushing against him as he stared determinedly into her eyes, trying to figure out what she really meant, what she was not saying.

Her eyes stared back with equal wonder, widening as they peered into his, changing from anger and sadness to something else...

"Bella?" he whispered again.

Her mouthed opened slightly in response, and Edward thought she might speak, but instead her head seemed to roll towards him, her sweet breath licking across his face. Edward barely noticed the fact that he was clutching her tighter—that she was drawing nearer to him, and his logic was only half present when her forehead draped against the side of his face, her nostrils flared as she seemed to nuzzle against him, and her lips shyly but insistently brushed against the edge of his mouth.

The sensation erupted through him in tremors with aftershock after aftershock, and the pull was electric as his lips slid across horizontally: bottom lips caressing bottom lips and top lip pressing down. Hers were velveteen and tropical while his were icy and slick, and it was totally unlike the stolen kisses from before. This time, she was completely present: her furious breathing—the strained beating of her heart—the nimble grasp of her fingers clinging onto his shoulder. Bella wanted him, too. She cared for him—too. The dark space in his chest seem to settle in perfect orbit—as if some lost planet had finally been realigned.

He pulled away when she ran out of air, but he did so gently with a final peck before pulling back to seek her eyes.

Bella's eyes gazed back at him with some deep emotion. She wasn't smiling but she was still breathing heavily, her quickened breaths disquietening the room. She blushed after a moment.

Edward ran his thumb along her cheek.

She gulped.

"Edward...?" she asked, her voice weak.

He nodded.

"I think that violated the patient doctor relationship."

Edward wanted to laugh, but he needed fresh air first. He held up single finger before leaning back out the window and taking in another fresh draught of the night's breeze, and then he turned back to her.

"I'm sorry," she apologized.

Edward started. "Why would you be?"

"I'm hurting you."

— _not the answer he'd expected._ "Bella, why would you think you'd be hurting me?"

Bella looked at him with tested patience. "Because," she whispered.

Edward froze. "Because of what?"

"What you are."

More silence. Even Bella's breathing had stopped.

"What am I?" he asked slowly.

"A vampire."

And the word just hung there. It hung in the air because Edward was in total shock. It hung because she'd said the word so simply. It hung because she was still sitting in front of him, gazing at him with nothing but affection.

"How did you...?"

"A boy on the reservation—he told me some legends."

"About vampires?" Edward pressed.

She nodded.

"Aren't you afraid?" he asked.

"Of what?"

"Of me?"

"Why would I be afraid?"

"Because I'm a vampire."

She shook her head at him and smiled. She hesitantly pushed her fingers into his hair, smiling. "You don't secretly have fangs do you?"

Edward failed to hold back his laugh. "No—no fangs."

Bella nodded as if she had already considered this. "I'm dreamed that you might have fangs."

"No fangs," Edward chuckled.

"You really are like a character of a book, you know?"

"Is that your way of explaining to me why you're not running away from me? Vampires appeal to your literary tastes?"

Bella smirked, her shoulders seeming to relax. "Probably—it'd make sense wouldn't it?"

Edward grinned but then his thoughts turned serious again. "Why were you going to quit therapy?"

Bella's brow furrowed. "How'd you know?"

"You didn't reschedule."

Bella looked embarrassed again.

"Bella," Edward asked again.

"I liked you too much," Bella confessed.

And then they were just staring at each other again, lips parted and faces once again drawing nearer.

A knock at the door interrupted them.

Edward started—finding himself shocked to realize that he'd been so completely distracted that he hadn't noticed Alice's arrival.

"Come in, Alice," Edward growled.

Bella looked at him with wide eyes.

A small nose followed by a pair of golden eyes curled around the door, and then a smile appeared as Alice stepped into the room. Naturally, she didn't look evenly slightly surprised to see Edward and Bella curled up on the floor by the window.

"Nice to _finally_ meet you, Bella," she said softly.

Bella flicked a nervous glance at Edward, though she was obviously trying but failing to smile politely at Alice.

Edward gestured with his hand. "You've had the misfortune of meeting my sister Rosalie, and now you get the additional misfortune of meeting..."

Alice clucked at him, cutting him off. "You always have to be so dour, don't you?" She turned back to Bella. "I'm Alice!" she announced. "And you're Bella!"

Bella opened her mouth like she wanted to say something but then closed it and gave Alice a shy smile.

"How are you doing?" she asked with compassion. _I can't believe that ogre managed to get so close to her..._ And then she was at their side, not bothering to check her speed as she bent down next to Bella to examine her bandages. "I thought about bringing Carlisle in with me..." She gave an assessing look at the gauze taped over Bella's forearm and then smiled up at her.

"I'm fine," Bella insisted, glancing at Edward.

"Hmmm...." Alice mused, releasing Bella's arm. She glanced back and forth between Edward and Bella with a wicked look in her eye. "Just _fine_ , was it?"

Bella blushed in embarrassment at Alice's implication.

Alice giggled, and then her eyes seemed to fog briefly. Visions were popping like bubbles in Alice's head as she saw Bella's face in a hundred different futures.

Bella studied Alice with obvious concern, but then Alice's eyes refocused on her. "We're going to be the best of friends!" she piped, like she'd had some sort of surprise.

Bella blinked at her but only looked slightly taken aback.

"Here, time to stand. I'll help you up," Alice chimed and then proceeded to pull Bella off the floor and into a standing position.

Edward stood too.

"We need to get you home. Jessica is going to call your house in thirty-two minutes asking about the jacket you left in her car. If we don't get you home in time, Charlie's going to flip."

Bella blanched, clearly confused as how to Alice could know the exact time...

"I'm driving you. Edward will have to..." she trailed off. _Carlisle is waiting outside for you, Edward._

Edward grimaced though he nodded ever so slightly. He could hear his thoughts, now that he focused. Carlisle was out on the office's back porch.

Alice smiled reassuringly at Bella. "Edward needs to breathe some more seaside air."

Bella looked agonized at Alice's words.

Edward touched her back comfortingly in response.

"It'll be okay," Alice soothed her.

Bella turned back to face Edward. "When will I see you again?" she whispered with no small amount of emotion.

The question put Edward at a total loss. He wanted to pull her back against him, refuse to ever let her leave his side _—but then there was what would be best for Bella..._

"Thursday at 9:30." Alice broke the tension.

Edward raised his eyebrow. There hadn't been a vision in Alice's head to tell her this. The time was her own choosing—she was _plotting_.

"And why then?" he asked aloud for Bella's benefit.

"Bella's experienced a tragic incident. I think she needs more therapy, don't you?"

\+ l + l +

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Phantom I was a continuation of the Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. It was launched in May of 1925 and introduced many technical improvements using many of the mechanics of its predecessor (the Silver Ghost). Keeping to the tradition of Sir Henry Royce, it was an evolution rather than a revolution. The Phantom I was available in two sizes, a 143.5-inch or 150.5-inch wheelbase.
> 
> 2\. Italian:
> 
> 'sto finocchio pensa ch'ha di soldi - This fag thinks he thinks has money.
> 
> Oh, ho un po 'di denaro. - Oh, I have some money.
> 
> Rimarrà. Non ti preoccup'. - He'll stay. Don't worry.
> 
> 3\. Slang:
> 
>  
> 
> _Bulls - cops_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dicks - investigators, more senior cops_
> 
>  
> 
> _Clubhouse - police station_
> 
>  
> 
> _Racket - illegal, black market monopoly, often mob-run_
> 
>  
> 
> _Frau - popular slang term for wife (also German)_
> 
>  
> 
> 4\. Matthew 18:12-13 _._ Being born in the 1640's Carlisle would probably be a Church of England, King James Bible guy—so that's the version this came from.
> 
> 5\. Incubus: a male incarnation of the succubus. In legend, incubi prey on women at night until they are drained of all physical and sexual energies. Moreover, the incubus has the ability to father children.
> 
> Incubus: Grammy-nommedalternative rock band out of California
> 
> 6\. Genghis Khan - badass motherfucker Mongolian who created the greatest land-based empire ever. Wiki it.
> 
> 7\. Roosevelt, Franklin Delano - Longest-running US president who oversaw WWII and the great depression.
> 
> 8\. Dr. _Jekyll_ \- Mr. Hyde ref: _Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ by the Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson in 1886, about a London lawyer who investigates strange occurrences between his old friend, Dr. Henry Jekyll, and the misanthropic Mr. Edward Hyde. The work is known for its vivid portrayal of a split personality, split in the sense that within the same person there is both an apparently good and an evil personality each being quite distinct from the other. The novella's impact is such that it has become a part of the language, with the phrase "Jekyll and Hyde" coming to mean a person who is vastly different in moral character from one situation to the next.
> 
> * * *


	7. The Wax Drips

\+ l + l +

April 18, 1930

\+ l + l +

Edward lay in the center of a wide prairie field. The air around him smelled of mold, flattened grass, and the great immaculate sweep of spring. It was raining hard. Racing thunderheads to-ed and fro-ed up above, and lightning whipped out electric lavender across the sky, only to be gone in the next-half second, faded into the ghostly navy. The white-to-blue, white-to-blue snapped over his vision like oculist lenses, the blue dimming the entire meadow in murk while the eruptions of white clutched at every shadow and highlight.

It was distracting—the way the flares of lightning caused his skin to shimmer, and it was made even odder by the effect of the rain—drops popping off his arms like misshapen pearls in the blinks of storm light. In addition to the raindrops, a sprinkling of yellow petals coated Edward's hair. A simple shake of the head would have sent them flying, but he made no such move. The petals had arrived with no small struggle. Gusts of wind had shredded them from the nearby honeysuckle, sending the threads of yellow up and up into the air until they floated and fell, landing on him and the surrounding grass. Edward liked the look of the event, the child-like yellow dots mocking the delirium of dark blue. The petals didn't sparkle, but they did seem to glow.

As he lay motionless, his mind ran in high gear. He tried to focus himself. On music. The pell-mell instrumentation of Mother Nature around him hinted at a song, and Edward wanted to capture it. He tried to use the whine and whistle of the wind, the beat of thunder, and the patter of the drops, but… the weather had yet to provoke a melody. If anything, it seemed too natural—too _right_ , and Edward had only mentally sketched out a few bars.

Thus, he lay, as he had for the better part of the last three days, doing nothing.

Trying, but failing to forget.

Edward wanted to go home. The desire had hit him all at once. He'd been at the San Francisco train depot. It was a pleasant hour, just before sunset, and the rays of pink and red filtered through the coal haze of the station, bathing the otherwise sparse and industrial surroundings in warm, pastel tints. He'd been hunting with leisure, debating whether his feeble knowledge of Cantonese was sufficient to condemn two men smoking in the corner. The images in their head were certainly violent, but then if he couldn't understand their language, could he really know for sure? He'd been contemplating this when his attention was diverted.

A young man ran through the crowd, pushing past other scandalized passerby with "sorry!" and "excuse me!" and lacking the slightest modicum of comportment. The young man saw only the view in front of him. His parents. Loud and clear and commanding Edward's full attention. _MOM. DAD. HOME._

The young man met his father and mother without pretense or discomfort. He dropped his still-new suitcases with a clatter and threw his arms first around his mother, smiling and kissing her cheeks. Next, he hugged his father, answering his parents' questions about school and his friends with a light heart, and then his father had gathered up the suitcases against his son's protests, and the family left the station with smiles. As they exited, Edward saw flashes of country quilts and a warm hearth, the smell of burnt sausage, and sounds of laughter and proud compliments.

Edward wanted to go home.

But Edward had left—and that's why he lay there in a great, big puddle. He wanted to go home, yet he wasn't sure what "home" was. Missing the dream of his own dead parents? Missing Carlisle and Esme? Hating himself for what he was—a horrible compromise? Wondering what it would be like to die? He wondered if he would see his real parents if he did die. He pondered that it was possible that a part of him was already there—with them—and this shell that remained might just be hell's idea of a bad joke.

_Edward wished Esme was around to tell him to stop beating up on himself._

_Or that Carlisle could dip into his bottomless pit of compassion and give him some advice._

_Or that he even had a fucking piano._

Something or someone to express real emotion.

But there was nothing. Nothing at all. This was how he had spent the better part of the past few days, motionless in the meadow, playing in the opposing worlds of memory and morality and petty instinct.

Thus, Edward started slightly when he felt the nearing surge of energy. The tiniest hairs on his arms stood on end, like small compass needles following a magnetic force. The electrical center of the storm was nearing—and it called to Edward.

He felt the pulse and heard the crack when the bolt snapped a branch in the forest on the north side of the prairie. The echoing snarl of the hit was like a festival of drums and cracking sticks.

Above, he could feel the next bolt forming.

Only fire, venom, and the jaws of the immortal could harm a vampire. Lightning was concentrated fire, was it not? Edward thought of Carlisle trying to take his own life when he became a vampire so many centuries ago. Edward wondered if he had tried this...

Edward made his decision then.

_Well, why not?_

The storm had called, and he would answer.

He stood in the next instant, running almost before he was aware of it and hunting down the saturation of ions like it was prey.

He felt it when the pulse formed above.

Edward leaped.

He threw himself upward, hundreds of feet into the air and met the surge with his hair like wire and his eyes wide open.

He expected to die.

And then the bolt hit. It coursed through him. It burned. The old channels of life seemed to course anew—but with death—venom turned to acid.

He expected to ignite.

But instead he just fell. He fell and fell, and it seemed like an infinity because the white-hot overcame the cold, and the crackle and the burn seared—and the vector of time seemed to invert—and eternity became every second. The burn that filled his throat now filled his whole frame. He burned.

And he fell.

When his body hit the earth, he didn't feel so much as saw and heard the spray of dirt around him and whining of rock being crushed below.

He lay there, a monster-shaped imprint in the earth.

The storm went away.  
The sun rose in the east. Then the moon.  
Then the sun again.

The cycle repeated.  
The wind beat across the prairie field and coated him with petals, seeds, leaves, and dust.

It was on the third day that he heard it. The light padding of paws. It wasn't quite close enough but was approaching. Edward's body seemed to adjust autonomously, hackles raised. The animal—a mountain lion—Edward deduced, was at the line of fir trees at the edge of the field. When the wind hit, Edward leaped. He was in the air for a half-second, and then he was less than ten yards away and sunk into a low crouch—and the lion saw enough to know to fear—to recognize the superiority of its pursuer, but the beast had no time. No chance.

Edward's second leap sent him forward with missile precision at the fleeing beast. His arms caught the lion's forepaws, his teeth caught its neck, and his whole body wrapped around the lion. While they rolled among the trees, Edward drank. The blood coursed down his throat, and yet he couldn't taste it or feel it or smell it. He sucked, swallowed, and drank.

After the last drop was gone, Edward collapsed. And then he felt it. The shivering pain. It was like he could feel the cellular units inside his body repairing themselves—the polar shapes being refitted and re-energized and salvaged. Sand becoming glass in the furnace.

After a time, however, some control was restored, but the feeling in his throat, the itching, aching, burning blood lust, remained his primary impulse.

It was like he was a goddamn newborn.

So he hunted in the woods. He found a coyote pack along the river. He caught three of them. He pulled down a large moose at nightfall.

And still the ache in his throat and limbs was unreal—the sense of satisfaction wouldn't last. His body seemed to be absorbing the blood at breakneck speed.

The worst was when he caught the scent of human...

He came out of the forest and found himself at the edge of a vineyard. Rows of grape vines stretched for miles and miles through the hills. Edward caught the distant scent off the wind... On the opposite side of the valley, a young farmhand had taken his lunch break out among the vines. Edward could hear his musing thoughts and smell the scents of sweat and tallow and pheromones— _and his blood his blood his blood. Salty and warm and piquant._

Edward's body seemed to react at the same time as his brain—the two grappled for the weapons—but neither won. He ended up knocking into a tree, causing a splitting crash and sending frightened birds fleeing to the air. He held his breath and hugged his arms tight across his body, bracing against instinct in an awkward struggle.

Across the valley, the farm hand looked in the direction of the sound and the sight of fleeing birds. _Probably nothing_ , he thought, _but still..._ He packed his lunch and headed home. The farmhand walked at his usual pace, telling himself over and over again _it was nothing_ , though his impulse was to flee like mad.

Edward was glad he didn't run. If he'd run, the hunter would have driven down his prey.

After the farm hand left the valley and the wind smelled clear, Edward ran.

An hour later, he savaged an entire flock of wild turkey. Sitting among the feathers and the blood, Edward realized what he had to do. He needed to find _bad_ humans as soon and conveniently as possible. He thought of one place first. As he'd made his way out of San Francisco, his clear eyes had gazed upon the cold island in the middle of the Bay. Thus decided, Edward headed west.

He avoided the major roadways and any sign of humans, though they grew more frequent. He hopped over fences and leaped across rivers and tracked through orchards of citrus and glades of primordial Redwood. He hunted when it was convenient—taking down any odd deer, occasionally cheating and catching a rancher's cow or solitary mule. When he reached an empty beach on the Pacific, he dove into the waves and swam south.

He emerged on the island sometime later. Alcatraz was gloomy underneath the shadowed moonlight. Edward came up on the beach from the northwest side by the power plant. The structures looked in ill-repair. He'd read in the paper that the military was running low on funds for the place, and from where he was standing, that seemed to be the case.

From the edge of the power plant he ran at full speed, staying in the dark until he reached the water tower. He could smell the nearing stench of the morgue. Inside, he could hear the thoughts of the incarcerated in the three tiered high cell block...

_103 days to go..._

_George stole my cig—the bastard._

_If Hal thinks he can pull one over Verril, then he's got another thing coming to him. His head's going to meet concrete if he tries another fucking trick in the yard..._

But mostly boredom.

Edward wanted to hunt them. His inner demon lusted at the thought of so many choices, and yet, Edward realized he couldn't get access to most of them. Even though it was night, the guards were still active on the cell block. They made their regular rounds up and down the aisles.

The sick ward, however, was quiet. There were several inmates there—and the scent of blood there was the strongest. Edward let the mouthwatering smell pull him forward. He ran along the north side of the cell house, running low to the ground and at full speed to avoid detection from the beams of the lighthouse and guard lookouts.

No one saw him.

The sick ward was on the second floor. Edward leaped onto the upper window ledge to gain access. It opened at the top of a stone stairwell. He pulled the glass frame open carefully and then closed it back up as he leaped down. He landed silently on the steps, and then he made his way up to the ward. The isolation rooms were just to his right. They were empty now.

The ward, as the heady scent of blood informed him, was not empty—though all of the patients were asleep. He tried to scan their dreams but found the process difficult. Most of the thoughts focused on minor daily toils, squabbles with fellow prisoners in the yard, letters from home, and so on. Edward sighed.

Fighting in the mess room did not a monster make.

There was a single guard dozing in the corner. An orderly was checking on a final few patients before heading off to bed. He would check their vitals, replace any sullied bandages, and then make notes on the charts at the end of their cots. The first patient had a nasty slash from a mishap in the wood shop. The smell of blood mixed with pus from the bandages was not good—and yet Edward had to swallow the venom in his throat. The next patient simply had a fever, which the orderly checked. He then gave a shudder as he read the warning on the final patient. _Leon Copp—admitted for Burglary and Assault while wearing the uniform—but his crimes since arriving... what they said he liked to do to the fresh faces against the rec yard fence... That poor boy._ He looked out the window at the morgue. _No one should bleed like that—and from down..._ He shuddered again, and then he set down the chart and made for the exit. He was going to take an extra whiskey "ration" this evening...

After the orderly was gone, Edward made his was quickly down the aisle to the side of Leon's cot. Leon's thoughts as he dreamed were calm but there were flashes of...

Leon Copp, it would seem, had a mind for sadism. He also smelled irresistibly meaty and sweet. It was an easy decision.

Edward lay down on the edge of the cot, carefully distributing his weight to cause the least disturbance. Then he gently rolled Leon's head in his direction, turning the neck at the best angle, and then he narrowed in on the pulse point, pressing his teeth up to the fragile flesh, and bit down.

Leon's eyes flew open and his mouth gasped—but Edward clamped his hand across lips and jaw, muffling any sounds. When the man tried to thrash, Edward caged himself around him, restraining him completely.

But after Edward had drawn the first quart, Leon's body stopped its revolt. After the third, Leon's thoughts dimmed and faded. His heart stopped beating close to the fifth. Edward's last pulls were made with him encouraging the dead organ with slow pumps to Leon's chest. He finished the job, and then cautiously licked his lips, checking the surrounding beds to make sure the event had gone unnoticed.

No one stirred.

Edward pushed Leon away from him—as far away as he could on the narrow cot, and let the blood do its work. The cooling in his throat. The softening of his limbs. The end of the lingering stings just beneath his skin.

He wasn't there long, maybe ten minutes when he felt it again.

The familiar burn in his throat. Thankfully, it was— _only_ his throat. For once, the rest of his body felt sated, and yet his throat seemed ready for more.

He moved swiftly down the aisles then, for morning was nigh.

He decided he should choose among the weakest. There were two with weakened heartbeats. He examined each of their charts. Ralph Kerr, Forgery, and Mack Boyd, Sodomy & False Enlistment. He tried reading their dreams while they slept. Mack had thoughts of pancakes and oak leaves and some odd vision of a bathtub that never stopped filling. Ralph dreamed of climbing—dirt and stone then open sky, then sand and water.

Not exactly useful for his purpose.

He checked the charts of the other patients. The man with the fever, Felonious Assault. The man with the nasty cut, Robbery. The blond at the far wall, AWOL. The final one, Sodomy again... the last man was probably 5'6" at best and slight. Even if he'd have wanted to, he could never have been the aggressor.

Edward turned back to look upon the face of Mack Boyd. It was a simple face. But then Edward knew that a face meant nothing. Beauty had little to do with evil—vampires threw that illusion in the gutter. Edward wished he could just ask the man. Had the crime been violent? Or had it been nothing of the sort? Had it been love? Had it been consensual? Edward stared down at the sheet. The army didn't distinguish between violent rape and "getting caught in the act."

Edward used to think like that. He didn't know that men could love other men that way. Even after he first changed, he'd possessed his human ideas of morality. A man doing that to another man was _wrong_. Carlisle had taught him differently—"love is boundless," he would say—and then Edward had finally paid attention, listened to shamed thoughts, pained marriages, unexpressed love.

Edward didn't think like he used to.

And yet, what if Mack was like Leon? Mack was a big man, fat for ex-military—and he had to have at least six full quarts of blood. Edward was sure that Mack could bully anyone he wanted, but did he...? Edward knew what strong men could do to the weak.

Mack's scent was sweet, like tapioca and toffee. _Mouthwatering_. Edward realized his desperation was growing again.

Edward looked at his chart again. Heart attack, and it would seem this was not Mack's first.

And then Edward checked Ralph's chart. Ralph had been in a fight. There were a broken leg and some infections. The blood smelled off.

Edward turned back to examine Mack.

 _Tapioca and toffee._ Edward swallowed another mouthful of venom. Well, either way Mack probably wouldn't make it out of his prison sentence alive...

The guard at the table was stirring in his sleep. He would awaken soon—and that would not be acceptable.

Edward needed to kill someone. _Now_.

And so he made his decision.

Mack was drained less than two minutes later. His heart quit almost immediately.

Edward backed away from him with closed eyes. And then was out the door, into the stairwell, and falling out the window. After scanning the area over, he began his flight, swooping across the ruins of the parade grounds, scaring herons into the air, and diving into the Bay.

He swam through the cold water until he was out of the Bay and into the Pacific Ocean. Not really deciding so much as not deciding, Edward continued swimming. He didn't think he'd stop. He knew if he kept going south by southwest he'd pass over the Pioneer Fracture Zone and then the much larger Murray Fracture Zone, and then if he swam southwest, he would hit the Hawaiian Ridge.

He wondered what it would be like there. Bright, alive, sunny and tropical.

From there he could go anywhere.

He could go anywhere because he was a _vampire_ , and there was nothing to stop him.

Anywhere.

And then he thought back to what he'd just done.

He thought about Mack.

Anywhere but home.

\+ l + l +

March 8, 2005

\+ l + l +

As Alice and Bella exited the front door, Carlisle came in hurriedly through the back. His thoughts were... _excited_ — _to say the least_ , Edward thought.

Carlisle wanted to see Edward's face—thus, the hurry. He was slightly worried over Bella's wounds, but he could sense through multiple factors, the scents of alcohol, clotting, and tape that Edward had tended to Bella's wounds with obvious care. And Carlisle was also worried about that criminal, the one that had hurt Bella. He wasn't worried about the man being hurt so much—although he did had a broken leg—but that Edward would want vengeance and possibly even try to _—if Edward went after the man... the consequences could hurt Edward and Bella. And nothing should ruin such a grace for his son. Nothing._

Edward answered Carlisle's thoughts. "I'm not planning on drinking him—I wouldn't touch a drop of that poison," he stated.

Carlisle nodded, though his thoughts—the fear of the past—betrayed him. "I know that, Edward, but I don't want you going after him."

"He hurt her."

"And he should be punished." Edward could see Carlisle's plan playing out in his head. _He's at friend's house now—a nurse—she's trying to set the leg, but it's not working. He's wanted in multiple states, regardless. They're going to take the ferry in the morning. He's headed to the Royal Jubilee hospital. Once he's out, an officer can be waiting. We can call him "an anonymous tip."_

"That hospital is in Canada."

Carlisle looked at him in confusion. "Yes..."

"I'd rather he stay here."

"And why is that?" he asked slowly. He did not want to provoke Edward.

"Washington State upholds the death penalty."

"Oh, _Edward_." Carlisle shook his head in disapproval but internally, he was relieved. After all, Edward had agreed and wasn't racing after the bad guy. _It must be Bella—Bella is changing my son—and for the better_.

Edward tried to roll his eyes at Carlisle's thoughts, but from Carlisle's viewpoint, Edward's attempts to feign nonchalance were feeble at best. He looked dumbly happy.

"Let's head home, shall we?" Carlisle suggested with evident cheer. "And how about a hunt along the way? I'd say you could use a good hunt..." He chuckled at Edward's flat expression, and they both headed out to the parking lot.

\+ l + l +

March 9, 2005

\+ l + l +

When they arrived home, all was not calm. Alice stood in the center of the living room, hands on each of her tiny hips. Rosalie stood across from her, hands on much curvier hips. Edward and Carlisle had heard the yelling as far as three miles away.

Rosalie was the one currently yelling. "She is NOT going to _stumble_ her way into our family! She is NOT going to be your new best friend! She is NOT going to be Edward's new pet! She is NOT going to know all our secrets! She is a HUMAN! Plain and simple! She is a human! And she's going to stay HUMAN!"

Behind Rosalie, Emmett and Esme cringed at her words. Jasper stood in the opposite doorway—giving Alice her space, but carefully monitoring Rosalie.

Alice huffed in frustration. She spoke calmly, not flinching under Rosalie's furious stare. "Rose, you're my sister and my friend. Nothing is going to change that."

"Edward is going to change that," Rosalie turned to glare at him in the doorway. "—as soon as he takes a chomp out of his perfect little maiden."

Edward had to take a deep breath to calm himself. If he didn't partially understand Rosalie's anger, he'd probably be going for her throat.

Alice's voice was much calmer. "Rose, it's Edward's choice. You chose Emmett, after all. Edward doesn't have anyone."

"Emmett had just been mauled by a motherfucking bear."

"And Bella was almost gang raped," Alice countered.

It was the wrong thing to say to Rosalie. Dead silence filled the room. Rosalie's eyes flitted wildly from Edward to Jasper to Alice to Carlisle. Behind her, Emmett tried to place a hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away from his touch. Esme had her hand pressed worriedly over her mouth.

When Rosalie spoke, her voice was menacing and dangerous."Yes, how very convenient? Edward the _avenger_ ," she spat, and then she turned to stare at him in the eyes. "—you said that you quit that role—no more acts of heroism—no matter the need—no matter that a girl was getting raped to death in 1933 three miles from where from where you were? No. And that was supposed to be _okay_ —because you were a _vampire_ , and what should a little human girl matter? Vampires stay out of human affairs. But now, apparently, the truth comes out. Apparently, some human life is worth saving—and others are not."

The moment her words stopped, she seemed to melt. And Edward felt every drop of hurt, jealously, and self-doubt pour down over her. Instinctually, Emmett came from behind and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her back against him.

Jasper was radiating calm throughout the room with total concentration—he was intent on protecting Alice—although Edward could feel the occasional break, the spikes from where Rosalie's emotion slipped in through his shield and affected him.

Edward opened his mouth to speak, but Carlisle cut him off. "The table, shall we?" he gestured with his arm.

They all moved soundlessly to the dining room, Esme and Carlisle at Edward's side, Alice and Jasper in a pair, and Emmett with his arms never leaving Rosalie. They sat down at the same time, and then Carlisle spoke. "Rosalie, you're my daughter, and I love you."

Rosalie eyes narrowed, but she listened.

Seeing he had her deference, Carlisle continued, "Edward loves you, too—whatever you might think at the moment. I know that the parallels between Bella's situation and your past are painful, but Rose, you cannot compare your birth to Bella's situation. Would you have had her go through what you did? Would you have had me not save you in the end?"

Rosalie's jaw tensed, and she looked down at the table, memories—Edward's cold words at her birth, as she screamed through the flames: _"'What were you thinking, Carlisle? Rosalie Hale?" Carlisle's reply, "I couldn't just let her die. It was too much—too horrible, too much waste." Edward's dismissive reply, "I know."_ Her eventual realization that Edward did know—he could read Carlisle's mind, and then the cloud of doubt—Edward could know Carlisle's thoughts, but _had he really been so incapable of stopping the outcome_? And yet she loved her brother, something that had built slowly over the century: tinkering with their cars, playing at the piano, disparaging high school... He and Emmett got along so well. Rosalie glanced over at Emmett then, who caught her eyes and held them. Her expression visibly softened, and she pouted slightly before speaking again. "I don't regret not dying—or becoming a vampire... I—it's just that—I," and she saw older versions of both Emmett and her, silver-haired and surrounded by grand babies in pastels, and then she thought of Edward—alone for so long. A twinge of guilt. "I don't want Edward to be lonely, but I also don't think everyone should be so gung-ho to let... Bella," she pronounced the name with distaste, "give up on her heartbeat."

"I have no intention of turning Bella," Edward answered her. "I would not—"

Jasper cut in, "And really, do explain. Why not, now?"

Edward glowered at Jasper— _just what he needed, an attack from yet another angle._ "I would never do that to her."

"What if she wants it? _Alice_ sees that she does," Jasper countered.

"She has no idea—"

"—no, _you_ have no idea. You ain't got her thoughts in a filing cabinet like you do with the rest of us."

"That has nothing to do with this."

"I think it has everything to do with this. It's the reason you're attracted to her anyway. She's a delightful li'l puzzle for you, ain't she? Maybe you're just afraid that once you turn her, that secret mind of hers is gonna open up, and you'll hafta spend the rest of eternity with a perfectly ordinary person."

"She is nothing of the sort."

"Well, fine then. Just shit or get off the pot, Edward. Be happy or be miserable. Just don't put us through your emotional yo-yoin'. I could use a break, you know?"

"Oh, right— _poor_ Jasper. I have to put up with your cesspool of a mind, _Jasper_ ," Edward hissed, and then raising his voice, he continued, "Seriously, who are you to talk? You on your own are a walking, bitching hangover! Alice is the only reason you are slightly tolerable. Alice is your aspirin and your morning cup of coffee. So, I'll admit, maybe I'm scared, maybe Bella is my unsolved mystery, but maybe like Alice for you, maybe she is exactly what I _need_."

For a long second, the room was silent. None of the seven vampires breathed, though their thoughts were in overdrive at Edward's words.

The quiet was broken by the erupting tinkle of Alice's laugh.

Alice wasn't laughing at Edward's words about Jasper. It would appear that she had seen this exchange of words before it even happened. Alice was laughing because the vision in her head was clearer than it had ever been.

_Bella with red eyes and a smile._

Edward stormed out of the room.

\+ l + l +

John was in a total fit when Edward met him for his appointment that day.

"He answered my letter!" he announced before sitting down. He held the letter—which was actually a wrinkled print out of an email in his hand.

Edward nodded. "And I take it the response to the letter was positive?"

A crease formed in John's brow as he leaned back into the chaise. "I don't know," he decided. "You want to see it?" He smiled wide at Edward and held out the letter. Edward leaned across his desk, arm extended and took the paper from John's fingers. Across the desk, John grinned at him. _He looks like the most lickable of all pickables when he bends forward like that..._

Edward had to restrain an eye roll as he took the letter and read it quickly. The message was short.

_John Boy—_

_Glad you're sorting out your shit. I still care about you—I always will—and I'm glad you're actually listening to someone other than yourself. We should grab lunch—don't over think it though, okay? I'm seeing someone, as you know._

— _Jeremy_

Edward put the email down with a smirk. Jeremy seemed like a likable fellow, and then Edward focused on John again. John had no idea what to make of the email.

"So?"

Edward smiled at him. "I think Jeremy is open to being your friend."

"He's not trying to make me jealous?" John looked disappointed.

"Is it so hard to believe that he's happy with someone else?" Edward asked.

"Yes."

"He has a boyfriend, John."

"Who is a _prick_."

"Shouldn't Jeremy decide who's best for Jeremy?"

"Well, it would be much more convenient if he'd dump the prick and..."

"John..." Edward sighed in disapproval.

John chewed on the side of his cheek. He knew what was best for Jeremy. _Not me—but not that oily prick, either!_ "I'm not being 'fair,' am I?"

"I think you know the answer to your own question."

John nodded, and then he smirked up at Edward. "But do you think it would be _bad_ to try and win him back?"

Edward frowned at John. "Are you planning on sabotaging his relationship with his current boyfriend?"

John paused and considered it, but then he glanced up at Edward again, a rare sense of guilt creeping in. "I should just be honest with him—right? Even if it won't work out—I have to tell him?"

"I think that would be wise."

"And if he says no?"

"Would it be impossible to be his friend?"

John clenched his teeth, and a wave of pain seemed to shoot over him. _No matter what had happened in the past, he'd never give up hope that... but then a life without Jeremy, well, that would be..._ "No," John answered. "No. It would not be impossible to be his friend. It would just be very, very hard."

\+ l + l +

Edward froze when he heard the car pull up in the clinic parking lot. He almost growled at Carlisle—who had kept him longer than usual by going into exceptional detail about the events with Lonnie that morning. Lonnie had been apprehended by the police in Victoria, and he was being held as detectives investigated a rather detailed "anonymous tip." Carlisle thought he would be extradited.

"So, he could still get the death penalty," Edward had mused.

Carlisle had shaken his head. "They won't extradite from Canada if the death penalty is a possibility."

Edward had been about to go over the possible legal ways around this when he'd heard the familiar screech of Alice's driving into the parking lot. Alice and Esme, it would seem, had brought Bella. Carlisle had a guilty look on his face as he took in Edward's expression. He had not known exactly—Alice had told him that she'd be coming, simply not with _whom_.

Alice's excited thoughts focused on getting Bella inside before Edward could change his mind, Esme was simply happy, and Bella's expression... she looked hesitant—shy even—but also determined. She looked _perfect_ , Edward thought.

And then Edward realized there was nothing he could do—because there was nothing he wanted more than to see Bella—and yet this hadn't occurred on his terms. He hadn't planned this. This was one-hundred percent Alice and her machinations... Edward spat " _Alice_ " like a swear word.

He heard her light laugh in response as she pulled open the back door to the clinic. There was the clicking of heels—Esme and Alice, and the soft padding of sneakers—Bella, as the women made their way down the hall. Edward focused intently on Bella's heart rate. It was elevated but not significantly so. She was edgy—though not scared. The realization made Edward smile slightly.

Alice opened the door with a "Surprise!" and then pulled Bella in behind her.

Bella's eyes were locked on Edward's. She seemed nervous—and _why shouldn't she be?_ She'd been abducted by a hyperactive midget vampire with a cupid-complex. Edward smiled softly at her—for he couldn't do anything else—and her returning smile was tentative and earnest and...

Alice interrupted the moment with a "Bella, you know Carlisle from around the clinic, right?"

Carlisle and Bella nodded at each other, and naturally, Bella blushed.

"So, Alice..." Edward began.

"Oh, do look at the time!" she held up her white wrist and glanced down at her watch in exaggeration. "Carlisle, Esme, and I have a pressing appointment that we need to attend. Edward, you'll be fine to take Bella home, of course?"

And before Edward could really respond, Carlisle, Esme, and Alice had shuffled out the door, letting it click shut behind them.

And then it was only Bella. And Edward. The irregular comedy of the situation before had fled, and there was only Bella in a shirt that was rather... Edward blinked as he took in the way it clung to Bella's top. Obviously, Alice had done more than simply bring her here. "Bella, was this alright? Alice can be..." he trailed off, trying to find the right word.

"Peppy?" Bella suggested.

"That would be one way of putting it." Edward nodded.

"And she really likes clothes, doesn't she?" Bella added. She was staring down at the new shirt she was wearing looking slightly disgruntled.

"She does," Edward agreed, and he kept his expression clear while he spoke, but he was having difficulty maintaining his calm as Bella and her fitted shirt seemed to be slowly making her way across the office. He was sitting on the front of his desk, and when she reached his side she looked torn as to whether or not to sit down alongside him or to reach out and...

And then she did. Her hand reached out, fingers extended to touch his arm, but then she stopped, and Edward could see the tiny goose bumps up and down her arm. "Is it okay?" she whispered.

He didn't say "yes" so much as he mouthed it, and then he heard her release a breath. She dropped her hand to his arm, and he felt the warmth, the softness, and the sweet texture of her flesh. He realized her scent wasn't the same mind-bending strength of the previous evening. Her wounds had completely sealed, and he could afford to... He realized that he was leaning toward her without even meaning to—and Bella was leaning into him as well, drawing in a long breath as her eyes fluttered shut. Her hair fell forward and her ivory neck was right in front of him and exposed and delectable and...

Edward pulled back with his hand clamped over his mouth.

Bella froze and then seemed to regain her bearings. Realizing what had happened, she looked down, embarrassed and hurt—which Edward did not find acceptable, so that when her hand tried to pull away, he stopped it, holding her warm palm against his cold forearm.

"Bella, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pull back—it's just that I need to be careful with you. I can't afford to take any risks. I can't—I won't."

Bella nodded, reassured. "This is okay, though?" her eyes pointed down at her hands. "My hand here."

Her words naturally caused Edward to think of every other possible place that her hands could go—which was not helpful, so Edward stood, gently pulling on Bella's hand so that she stood with him. "What would you say to going somewhere else? The beach? The park?"

Bella smiled, but then her jaw clenched. "But what about...?" and she looked around Edward's office.

"We'll have to go somewhere no one will know..." Edward muttered, and then he closed his eyes, because that had to sound alarming coming from the mouth of a vampire.

But Bella's voice betrayed no fear. "We can go anywhere. Anywhere would be fine... I want to—I mean—I want to be with you," she confessed, and Edward opened his eyes to find hers staring back, bright and honest. "I don't want to be away from you—no matter the reason."

"Like the fact that I'm a vampire?"

Bella smirked. "Or my therapist. Or—supposedly in your late twenties," she added playfully.

"I'm technically past my one-hundredth year."

This made Bella look thoughtful, "How old are you physically?"

"Seventeen."

Bella blinked in surprise. "Seventeen?"

Edward chuckled at her expression. "Do you have a problem with that?"

" _I'm_ seventeen." Bella looked positively indignant.

"Yes."

"How do you get away with it?"

"Away with what?"

"With no one knowing? I mean, I could tell." She looked somewhat smug.

"Well, most of my patients seem to lack your level of perceptiveness. Then, there's the glasses—which Alice insists are 'magic.'"

Bella pursed her lips. "I _like_ your glasses—you don't need them though, do you?" She looked somewhat disappointed.

"I don't. Vampires have enhanced vision."

Bella nodded and continued, "But the glasses aren't the only way you maintain your cover?"

"Alice told you?" Edward asked.

"She did. You can read minds."

"And this didn't surprise you?"

"There's not much about you that isn't a surprise to me."

A loaded response. Edward gave her a long look. "I can't read your mind, you know."

Bella blushed. "Alice told me that, too. I'm glad."

"Why are you glad?"

"Because I have embarrassing thoughts." Bella's face was flushed, and she was looking in any direction but his.

He waited for her to continue, but she said nothing, merely staring down at his arm as her thumb traced heated loops across his skin. "And what thoughts would those be?" he pressed.

Bella scoffed, shaking her head at him. "What beach or park do you want to go to?" she asked, changing the subject.

Edward chuckled and stood. "Food first—we can get you something quick and local. What time do you have to be back?"

"By eight."

"There's a quiet park I know of nearby..."

\+ l + l +

Half an hour later Bella had a turkey sandwich and a soda from a quiet deli not far from the office, and they were curled up on the park bench in Lincoln Park. Edward had tried to get her something nicer from the popular Italian place near the boardwalk—but Bella had refused anything that involved them separating—even for a moment.

Edward realized he liked watching Bella eat. It wasn't the food, of course. The food was more than a little revolting. Her mouth, however, bewitched him with every bite. She ate daintily, probably more carefully than normal, he thought, and yet there was the way her lips pressed and the subtle sound of her teeth biting down and tearing the bread, meat and cheese, and then when she tore the bite and the tiniest of crumbs trailed the inner lining of her lip, and her tongue would brush across the red-pink, leaving a trail of glistening wet that lasted only half-seconds before the air would take away the thin layer. Edward felt like a goddamn pervert with his reaction—and all Bella was doing was eating.

Moreover, that he found her beautiful wasn't helping—nor was the tingling effect of her fingers interlocked with his. Then there were the tendrils of hair that hung loose about her face, and it was the same two, which seemed to unloose from behind her ears every time she laughed. Edward would pull them back behind her ears whenever they fell. Bella shivered each time. He could have secured them better, but he felt no such compunction.

They were trading questions, the sorts of things that you'd never talk about in a therapy session. Useless topics. Favorite movie. Favorite poem. Favorite color. Favorite songs. Favorite flower. Favorite time of day. Place you'd most like to go. When the small talk ran out, however, Bella quizzed him on his telepathy, and then on his past—which he mostly avoided. He talked about his family, about being a vampire, and then he thought Bella was going to ask him _the_ question—"So how many infants have you drained, Edward?"—but she didn't. She looked up at him with a shy gaze and red cheeks and asked, "Have you ever been with... or loved anyone else?"

"No—and you?"

Bella looked up at him with wide eyes, "You know I haven't."

"I know you said, but not even..." he trailed off, but then stopped himself. "I'm sorry, Bella—I shouldn't—"

"No. Nothing. Never. I'd never even kissed anyone."

And then, unable to stop himself, Edward picked up her hand and kissed it. He kissed each of her knuckles and then each of her fingertips.

Bella moved closer to him.

He stopped her with a gentle hand on the shoulder. "No fast movements, okay?"

She said nothing but gazed at him intently.

They drew closer. Her head fell back, slightly limp, and her eyes locked on his mouth, and he moved closer inch by inch, and then he leaned down, holding his breath, suppressing his sense of smell, and forcing every last demonic instinct in him to hide away in that dark space in his chest.

His lips were only inches from hers when Bella moved. He caught her hand before it reached his hair.

"Careful," he warned half-heartedly. He almost wanted to laugh. It was surreal—he was in control, but she wasn't.

"Careful," Bella agreed in a faint, unsteady voice.

"I don't believe you," he teased, smiling as she tried to pull his lips back to hers.

She gave a sulky frown when he didn't bend at all to her pressure. "Edward, please."

Like he could really tell her "no." _But they needed to be careful._

He brought his face mere inches from hers and Bella closed her eyes and breathed in a long breath. "You smell really, really good."

"Do I?" he murmured and drew subtly closer to her.

_Two inches._

"Uh huh." Her sweet breath, so close, filtered across his face.

He had to swallow a mouthful of venom. _That Bella smelled good was not in question._

_One inch._

Their lips were so close.

_A half inch._

"Careful," he whispered.

_A quarter of an inch._

And then Bella made a noise that was a half-growl, and the tiny distance disappeared, and silk brushed across marble. And the _sensations_ —he didn't know how to define them, rose petals against the nose and feathers ticking down the spine and a slow submersion in warm bath? Bella's mouth was impossibly fragile against his, and yet so wonderfully, soothingly fluid and light.

He pulled away when he felt his control slipping—the ache in his throat seeming to push against the dark space in his chest—and then it was easy again. Bella's lips were flushed red, cheeks in a high pink, eyes bright and unfocused. He wanted to remember this—forever. And Edward thought this was what love must be—the intangible desire to want to memorialize such perfection in a poem, paint it on a canvas, or compose it in notes—make it _immortal_ —and then that thought drew pain because Bella wasn't immortal—she wasn't his to keep forever—and all he had were these moments, perfect pieces that couldn't last.

"Edward, what is it?" Bella asked, carefully examining his face.

Instead of answering, he kissed her, and Bella did not ask again.

That was how they spent the rest of the evening with short question and short answer and long and slow kisses on the park bench.

When time was up, he drove her to her house and kissed her goodbye before her dad came home.

\+ l + l +

When Edward entered the front door, the household was engaged in what could be called typical vampire activity. Rosalie was stretched across the arm chair, flipping through a magazine. Emmett was paging through a text on electrical engineering. Alice and Jasper were at the computer examining lists on eTrade, Jasper setting up aliases for the transactions, while Alice focused on the visions in her head. When a profitable transaction appeared, Alice would make her choices accordingly.

The house seemed to be business as usual—except it wasn't.

It wasn't because even though their actions were focused on their respective activities, the thoughts of his family members focused on him.

 _He's happy—but trying to hide it._ Jasper.

 _He smells like her._ Rosalie.

 _Bro's been getting his mack on fo sho._ Emmett.

 _Seeeeeeeee Edward—you had a good time._ Alice.

"Yes, I'm back. I spent the evening with Bella. I'm fine. She's fine. No death. No destruction," Edward announced irritably.

Rosalie rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. You smell like a chemically enhanced fruit basket after spending time with that girl—how could I not notice?"

"It's just strawberry—and you can barely smell it—her blood overwhelms it," Alice commented.

"I hate those imitation fruit smells. They're disgusting." Rosalie wrinkled her nose.

"Rosalie, really, I would rather you refrain from commenting on Bella. Your opinion is not needed," Edward snapped at her.

Rosalie narrowed her eyes at him and was clearly about to say something, when Emmett spoke up to cut the tension, "Why do human girls like to smell like fruit?"

Jasper answered him. "At the most primitive level," he drawled out the syllables, "it smells sweet and tastes good, but think about what fruit also represents—fertility, a good harvest, a sweet protection around a seed. It's also about being young and ripe."

Alice frowned at Jasper.

He winked back at her.

"Well, I suppose we should be happy she washes her hair," Rosalie muttered.

"I like Bella's hair," Alice responded.

Rosalie opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it. While she wasn't exactly pleased-to-death with Alice lately, she didn't want to be a shit to her about her hair—that wasn't Alice's fault. "I wish we could change our hair," Rosalie muttered in a conciliatory tone.

Emmett laughed. "Baby, if you want me to bite it off—you know I'd do it."

Alice didn't look up from her typing. "It would eventually shift back and reattach. It's not like our skin and limbs, but the polarity is still that strong." She could see the vision in her head. Rosalie with a hair missing—but eventually, slowly, the strand would inch forward until one day, it would reconnect.

"What if I burned it?" Emmett offered.

"Might work," Alice considered. It was hard to tell through her vision. The picture was fuzzy. Edward was sure that this was because there was no way in hell Rosalie would ever actually permit Emmett to get bite her hair.

"Cool," Emmett answered.

Edward shook his head at the conversation and then headed up to his room.

\+ l + l +

March 10, 2005

\+ l + l +

"Don't sit there" were Bella's first words when she entered his office the next day. Edward was sitting in his desk chair with some files in front of him. He hadn't been really reading the files so much as flipping through them haphazardly as he waited for her. Normally, Edward didn't notice the passage of time. He was a vampire. Time passed. That's what time did. But the anticipation over Bella's arrival had been a new brand of torture.

"Okay." He assessed her carefully. She was pouting. She didn't want things to be as they were. She didn't like being reminded about it. He supposed that was healthy.

He moved across the room. Vampire speed.

Bella didn't flinch. She merely patted the spot next to her on the chaise and grinned up at him.

He shook his head slightly and sat down. "I want to ask a question first, though."

Bella smirked. "That's fine. You can ask the first question, but then afterwards, I'm asking the questions."

Edward laughed. "Okay, fine. So, tell me this. Did Alice tell you that I was a vampire?"

Bella blinked. "No," she answered, cocking her head slightly to the left. She was definitely surprised by the question. "Why do you ask?"

"I've been thinking about it. You just accepted it too easily—even for you."

Bella nodded slightly. She was biting her lip.

"I want to know when you figured it out," Edward finished.

"Well, there was the obvious—the eyes, the so-called age, the temperature of your skin..." she trailed off as she slid her hand into his.

He smiled at her and pressed, "And?"

"Well, there was the incident at the beach?"

"The beach?"

"La Push."

Edward tried not to let his surprise show. _The treaty._ "What happened?" Edward asked plainly.

"Well, I was talking to Ben..." she looked up at him.

"About me?"

She blushed and nodded.

"Go on."

"We were talking about you—he plays _basketball_ with you—which I didn't know, and then I was telling him about my impressions—which he didn't agree with at all."

Edward chuckled. "No, Ben's sessions were rather different from yours."

Bella smiled at him and continued, "Well, I suppose I was being pushy—because I wanted to know more about you—and Ben was being nice, but then this guy—Sam, I think it was?"

"Describe him."

"He's probably about twenty-five, Quileute from the reservation, long hair, straight nose, and taller than you."

Edward nodded. "Okay."

"Sam overheard our conversation—which was odd, because he was on the other side of the camp fire, but he heard us talking about seeing you, and he made a comment, 'you shouldn't go anywhere near the Cullens' which, especially since Ben and I weren't talking all that loudly, was very odd. I was ready to ignore it, but then Ben asked him, 'Why is it any of your business?' to which Sam replied, 'Because it is,' and he just looked pissed, and Ben was upset—he wasn't exactly planning on making our therapy discussions a part of the group conversation—and _everyone_ was listening—but Angela and I both calmed him down, and we just ignored Sam."

"How does that...?" Edward was confused.

"Well, then, another one of the Quileute boys—Jacob—whose dad Billy is good friends with Charlie—came over and apologized for Sam—said he'd been a grumpy jerk lately and everything. And so we were talking to Jacob, and all was going well—he was telling us about how paranoid the tribal leaders were about your family, and then Jake made a comment about how stupid it was—and how Sam could probably use some therapy—and out of nowhere Sam just started screaming. He rushed Jacob and was yelling at him and shaking—"

"—shaking?" Edward asked, alarmed.

Bella didn't break her story to answer. "—and then Sam just pushed Jacob away. Muttered something unintelligible and ran into the woods. It was really, really horrible."

"So you are capable of being scared?" Edward muttered wryly.

"He almost hurt Jacob!" Bella responded indignantly.

Edward rolled his eyes, but he also clutched Bella closer—the idea of Bella being in danger—around what was obviously one of the damn werewolves from more than a half-century ago—upset him greatly. "So who told you our big secret?"

Bella flushed guiltily. "Um, I got it out of Jacob."

Edward furrowed his brow. "You 'got it out' of Jacob?"

She nodded. She still looked guilty.

"And just how did you do that?"

"Jake felt guilty after Sam, so he was already talking, but..." She looked down and whispered the words. "I _flirted._ "

Edward laughed. "Hmm.... I think we're completely done with that aspect of your therapy—making new friends with boys—I think your reclusive tendencies are _quite_ resolved."

Bella's mouth fell agape. "He's _fourteen_."

"And age gaps are so very important to you," Edward nodded with fake honesty.

Bella ground her teeth and narrowed her eyes, but Edward could detect the smirk sneaking in at the corner of her mouth.

Edward smiled at her expression.

She smiled, and then she put a hand on his chest.

He let her push him back against the slant of the chaise.

She smiled down at him. "Now," she said, "it's _my_ turn to ask the questions."

Edward laughed.

\+ l + l +

Soon enough the hour was over.

"Time's up," Bella muttered with a grumble.

Neither of them moved.

Edward smiled when he realized he had another excuse for them to stay put. "Don't move yet," he insisted.

"Okay," Bella agreed, nuzzling into the corner of his neck.

Edward chuckled. "It's just that your father is trying to get the nerve to ask Maggie out."

"Oh, really?" Bella leaned forward and propped herself up on her elbow.

"Are you okay with that?"

Bella smiled. "More than okay. Maggie's really nice."

"She's a wonderful person," Edward agreed.

"I'm glad he's asking her, finally. It'll be his first date in a decade, I'm sure."

"You're still going to her book club?" Edward asked.

"Yes."

"And what are you reading?"

Bella laughed. "They let me choose, actually, since I'm the first timer."

"And what did you choose?"

" _100 Years of Solitude_ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Can you guess why?"

Edward faked groaned into his hand. "Are you trying to figure me out through literature?"

"You guessed wrong. Really, I just like magical realism."

Edward shook his head. "Whatever, Bella."

She laughed and repeated his words back to him. " _Whatever_ , Edward," but then her face stilled. "I wish... I wish we had more time together," she confessed softly.

"I could—" but Edward cut himself short. "Oh, never mind."

"What?" Bella asked.

"I was going to say that I could visit you later—but that would be very..."

" _Great_. It would be great, Edward."

"Are you sure...?" he questioned.

She nodded.

\+ l + l +

Bella jumped slightly when Edward slid the bedroom window open, but then she smiled and crossed the room. She slowly slid her arms around him, and he put his finger under her chin and tilted her face up ever so slightly and kissed her.

"You have to stop doing that..." Bella murmured.

"Doing what?"

"Throwing me completely off guard!"

"Oh, sorry." Edward tried to appear rueful.

"I'm clumsy, you know, and startling a clumsy person is dangerous. We tend to fall and slip."

Edward chuckled. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by that."

And then she pulled on his hand, and he let himself be pulled. She pulled him across the room to her bed. The idea of Bella's bed was making him feel more like a human teenager than ever—and he found himself examining her clothes—a tank top and a pair of cotton draw string pants. She looked adorable.

"Were you waiting outside?" Bella asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"No, Charlie doesn't go to bed until ten," Edward answered. "I went hunting."

Bella eyed him carefully. He expected her to comment on his hunting, but instead she asked, "How do you know what time Charlie goes to sleep?"

"I read minds, Bella," Edward answered matter-of-fact-ly.

She shook her head. "No. That's not it."

Edward gave her his most innocent expression.

"You didn't even glance around the room when you came in. Also—that window used to squeak and recently it stopped squeaking. Have you been spying on me?"

"I do surveillance on all my patients."

Bella rolled her eyes. "Late at night?"

"Why not?" Edward tried to be nonchalant, but his smirk betrayed him.

Bella shook her head at him. "Edward Cullen, the next time we're in your office—we're going to talk about this."

And for the billionth time that day, Edward laughed.

Afterwards, they talked and kissed and curled up under her covers. Edward found he couldn't leave her bare shoulders alone and thus had to kiss from the corner of her shoulder all the way up her neck to her mouth. And the soft gasps from Bella at each kiss, her accelerated breathing, and the sweet smells from her breath, her skin, and between her legs... Edward had to keep stopping the both of them in order to maintain his control.

And thus, when Bella gave a sleepy yawn, Edward insisted on her going to sleep.

"I don't want to," Bella tried to argue through another yawn.

He didn't respond. If he kept talking, she'd stay awake, so instead he started humming... at first he wasn't sure what he was humming, but then as the notes took shape, he realized he was humming _that_ song again—except this time it felt so different.

"Not going to go to sleep," Bella protested again, through closed eyes and barely opened lips.

"Go to sleep, love," Edward whispered.

He saw the corners of Bella's mouth turn up. "You can't leave," she insisted.

"I won't leave," he assured her and then continued humming.

"Good," she said, seeming to relax, and then she murmured, "because I want to be with you forever."

Edward didn't stop humming, but he didn't say anything more. When she finally drifted to sleep some minutes later, Edward quieted. He tried to process his emotions—the maddening happiness that seemed to spring forth from his chest—the desperate need to protect Bella from the world, from herself, from _him_. He tried to process it all and failed. Because every time he tried to reason with himself, Bella would let out a long breath or would turn slightly, and he would forget every previous thought.

Because Bella was in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. An oculist is an old word for an eye doctor or someone who made glasses and lenses in general.
> 
> 2\. The lightning. So, there was much discussion with various parties prior to this as to whether or not Edward would turn crispy if struck by lightning. The consensus was that he would not die; however, the ideas of how it would affect him were quite varied. I, naturally, chose my own interpretation. 1. Because it's my story 2. Because I think the lightning is bad ass 3. Because I think it's sorta hot. 4. Because of all that stuff about how vampire ashes need to be scattered far and wide, or they'll reconnect. I assumed that wasn't paranoia or superstition. I figured Edward's body would try to repair itself. Do come and discuss this on the forum thread, though, I am not of one-mind on this.
> 
> 3\. Alcatraz. So, history completely fucked up this chapter and made it late. Because in 1930, Alcatraz was not the Federal penitentiary that it came to be. It was owned by the military, which had used it to house political prisoners and war criminals. In the early-mid 30s, Alcatraz was costing the Army too much, so they sold it to the D.O.J. in 1935 (?). Thus, military crimes are different from civil crimes—and Alcatraz was neither so high-security nor so guarded at that time. I also looked at maps to plot Edward's infiltration into the prison. Here are the links for the history and the 1934 prisoners list and crimes: www(dot)notfrisco2(dot)com/alcatraz/inmates/data/alist01(dot)html
> 
> (dot)nps(dot)gov/archive/alcatraz/mil2(dot)html — my emphasis on sodomy was unexpected. It was the attached list that made me blink my eyes and include it.
> 
> 4\. _100 years of Solitud_ e by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Cien años de soledad. The product of 15 months of work, during which García Márquez barricaded himself in his house, the book is considered García Márquez's magnum opus. The novel chronicles a family's struggle and the history of their fictional town, Macondo. Like many other novels by Gabriel García Márquez, _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ crosses genres, combining elements of romance, history, and fantasy. The narrative style combined García Márquez's experience as a journalist with the literary style of magical realism and extensive uses of metaphors and irony.


	8. Demons Have No Prayers

\+ l + l +

September 13, 1930 - New Orleans, Louisiana

\+ l + l +

Edward stared at the arachnid dangling from the glossy string.

He disliked the spider but not as much as he disdained this city.

New Orleans. He could not recall making a decision to come to this godforsaken pit of the continental forty-eight, and yet here he was.

Lonely and yet somehow bored at the circus.

In the late summer heat, the city stank. It smelled like a swamp ought to: sewage, the sour rot of blood, and the still ripe remnants of last week's hangover. Vice tramped around with the open yells and cackles of vaudeville, and the _people_. Edward blew a breath irritably on the cob web before him. The pathetic-excuses-for-men were drunk—the women, scantily clad and drunk—and the vampires...

New Orleans was a Mecca for the vampire—his most fervent reason to hate the place—and yet the reasonable part of his brain thought that for a lonely, wayward vampire, this was the place to be: find a fellow with whom to hunt, befriend a nearby coven, trade war stories, and be "social." But really, now that Edward was here, he found that he didn't care. The shifting, almost silent profiles of his fellow predators did not appeal.

But at least the music was good.

For the moment, though, Edward was longing for a half-way decent piece of literature—but he was empty-handed and temporarily trapped in the attic of an abandoned Camelback just off the eastern end of Decatur near the wharf. As soon as night hit, he planned to track down any number of the mind-sizzling melodies that blazed through the area, but for now, he had to wait.

The decayed, ancient house leaned slightly with each blast of wind off the Gulf. Edward wasn't sure if the old structure would survive this year's hurricane season, and yet Edward felt calmed as he listened to the beats of the gusts across the roof and creak of the salt-crusted boards. Bored with the human thought in the area, he focused on the small creatures in the attic. The attic was full of the usual slew of lesser life: a nest of mice, roaches, termites, and the spider.

 _Latrodectus mactans_. The black widow.

Edward had never liked spiders, and he certainly did not have a favorable opinion of this one. Her web, like the webs of all black widows, was ugly. No pattern. Just a wretchedly woven sheet of ghost cloud. And then there was her shape: the black hourglass with the bright red dot.

He held out a finger to trace the thread she had just made and watched with mild amusement as she moved to defend and attack, only to back away at the last second—finally sensing that the attacker was more stone than flesh. More monster than she.

"That's right," Edward encouraged. "Go on with making your web."

The widow did as told.

Edward, being in the mood that he was, began humming, "Itsy Bitsy Spider," only to stop himself after the second line. Immortal ennui was not worth nursery rhymes.

So, he turned back to the spider. "What a pair, are we not? Both with venom, the black and red. You operate on the stealth, and to your prey, you're a monster in size and strength, and—" Edward held up a finger. "Your webs—no matter how nauseatingly _avant garde_ —do the job." He dipped his chin to the spider.

The spider climbed up her fuzzed thread.

"Dear God, let me fix that for you," and then Edward spent the better part of the next few hours redoing the pattern of the web and keeping the company of an obviously offended Black Widow.

When darkness fell, he made to leave.

"Good hunting," he well-wished the spider, and then he descended into the night.

\+ l + l +

Edward walked in the general direction of the Vieux Carre', though, when he reached it, he passed through it quickly. The depression had driven out the tourists and left only the privileged college coeds to tramp about. They had taken the area down a notch, in his opinion—not that the tourists had been much better.

Edward strolled past a rumbling street car, a Young Communist member on a soapbox, and any number of peddlers hawking records, Muffulettas on just-out-of-the-oven baguettes, and the _Picayune_. He paused minutely when he found himself on Canal street, observing with no small humor the efforts of the Norwegian sailors trying to get their Po' Boys "dressed" in pinched accents. The shouts and hubbub were only drowned out by music blaring from victrolas up and down the intersection. Edward heard _Livery Stables Blues_ echoing from the cafe to the left and a scratchy ragtime coming from the honky tonk down the street. But Edward did not want the crackling imitation of the victrola—he wanted brass and ivory and wood. That was his real destination.

Hence, he turned inland toward Storyville, a trip he could manage some enthusiasm for. As a boy, ragtime and jazz had been his "cheat" music: the thin sheets won in bets from friends and hidden between pages of "appropriate material" and only ever pulled out when the coast was clear. He would play those snappy tunes with closed eyes and quick fingers, imagining he was a real piano player with a tin of salt at his side to snatch at the tips. In Chicago, jazz had grown in prominence, but Edward had always wanted to go here—to the birthplace of the music. And yet, he knew what to expect. Storyville these days was still the red light district it always was. He knew of its unsavory nature, but that didn't stop him, because from even so many blocks away, he could hear that the soul lived on: beating like a heart, singing tragedy with a belted "amen," and defying everything with the blast of the trumpet.

Edward half-skipped when he heard the familiar, yet entirely original zing a la Jelly Roll Morton coming from a stucco building right off Basin Street. Edward crossed the patchy neutral ground and moved down the alley, padding over chipped cobblestone and skirting beneath the swaying lamp light serrated by scraggly palm fronds. He stopped when he found himself in front of a narrow porch. Four men were sitting on the wood floor, playing bourré with a board balanced across their laps. They looked up when Edward's foot hit the bottom step.

He leaned on the rail and asked, "Floor show inside?" He kept his stance open and his expression clear.

The youngest man spoke, peering through the lantern light from the porch to assess the figure at the bottom of the stairs. "Who there?" When his eyes focused on Edward, Edward caught the uptake in his heart beat. _Why another ofay parading around these parts...? He's alone—and sure as a cat—and them co-eds never come to the integrated bars alone._

"Who's playing?" Edward asked, pointing toward the doorway. "They're good."

The oldest man—Tom—spoke, slightly slurring his words as he laughed in a deep baritone. "Ooo-woo! That be Benny Boy-That-Ain't-No-Boy on the trumpet and Earl on the clarinet. Benny's old as the sound himself but he got _beaucoup_ heat in those dead joints when he play—and then, Earl—well, Earl play that clarinet like he bum-dee-bum feeling up and down dem bubs on a pretty girl—ain't no one plays no ways like Earl." The man laughed at his own description, smacking the board. In his drunken state, he didn't even notice when the cards went tumbling off on his side.

The younger man spoke again, "Don't give no mind to Sloppy Tom, here. He's just friendly." _And—a half seas over_ — _which he prolly expect anyways. Another sacred savior comin to preach, no doubt. Third one this week... if ain't some preacher on a mission, it's a socialist, if it ain't a socialist—it's a communist, or whatever the hell the rage be today._

Edward acted as if he hadn't spoken. "It's an open show inside?"

"Yeah!" Tom cheered happily. The other men carefully grasped onto the makeshift table while he raised his hands high. "Just ask for Miss Iggy!" But then his face turned serious, "Just you be polite is all, or she tend to hit. She prolly hit me before the night is done." He gave a wide smile.

"I think I'll go in then, thanks." Edward began to move up the porch steps with easy steps.

"Dat right! You do your shagging like the rest of dem!" Tom encouraged with nodding and drunken glee.

At his side, the younger man as well as his silent companions were shooting daggers at Tom.

Edward tipped his hat. "Thank you, Tom—and gentlemen." And then he pushed through the door and headed down the hallway.

Behind him, he heard a whoop from Tom. "You alls stop yer stupid faces—gimme a break. I know comniss cops when I see dem!"

Edward shook his head and moved through the door.

\+ l + l +

Upon entering the main room, Edward gave a mental sigh of relief. The room was jammed, yes, completely jammed, but the thoughts didn't seem to touch him. They were eradicated in step and slide and twirl of the wrist. Couples moved like children did—dancing with no thought of exhibition or the world around—and yet they danced like it was their final hurrah: they danced like sex and death and flying and drowning. The jazz seemed seep through the cracks in the floor boards, ricochet with bad acoustics off the walls, and rattle the ceiling as the tarnished chandeliers overhead swayed and shook.

Edward wanted to drink it in. The thrill of it—the way it made him soar away.

He'd been settled against a table along the wall, when he felt the hand tap against his table. He smelled her first: bayou breeze and acorn. And then he looked up to find a tight-mouthed woman—the aforementioned Miss Iggy—staring at him, one hand on hip and the other gesturing as she asked him, "You here for Denny's stash or because you got a thang for colored girls?" _Or boys... he could be a greedy Ethel, yes he could._

Edward pointed once again to the duo at the front of the floor. "Those two," he pointed. "They're good."

"So, you like jazz, eh?" Another hand on the hip and a purse of the lips. She didn't believe him. "You look like one of those Mozart-Beethoven fellas."

Edward gave her a wise smile and let her know he knew his jazz. "Early ragtime started with Hogan, but then you have 'classical greats' like Debussy and Stravinsky who incorporated it—and that was decades ago— _before_ jazz. The song in this room is as good as anything those guys ever produced—so tell me, is there a reason that a kid who likes Beethoven wouldn't like this, too?"

Miss Iggy stared at him, her brow furrowed as she seemed to replay his words, and then without warning, she burst into heady laughter. "You!" she shook her finger. "You a bigger smart aleck than my boy George! —and that boy sass like a sailor—but I never correct him—though I _should_." She shook her head even as she smiled to herself.

"You have children?" he asked with a warm smile. He could see snippets of loving memories in her thoughts.

"I do." She nodded. "Four. George, Rex, Lionel, and Lou. All pests, mind you, but God love 'em, they keep their momma on her toes." She smiled again even as the look was wearied, but then she tapped her notepad. "Well, you might as well order something. What'cha be havin?" she asked.

"Tea will be fine," Edward said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Noodle juice or 'juice?'" _You get these fancy types wanting hot toddies or whatever the hell they call that loaded warm piss._

"Just tea, thanks."

She shook her head again. _Weird fella if I ever met one—and as sweet as he is outré._ "Pass a good time," she said finally and then headed on to the next table.

Edward let his head fall back again, closed his eyes, and returned to listening.

\+ l + l +

He stiffened when he felt her presence.

He heard her mind first: the snake slithering into the rabbit hole. Her mind was symmetrical and daggered—entirely focused on the hunt. Well, he corrected, on her hunt—and on him. He was in _her_ territory.

He smelled her next: lemon peel and sweet peppermint and musky, too.

When she entered the room, she moved quickly. Her mind calculated his stance, position. Being cautious, she took the roundabout way. She hugged the opposing wall, gliding with an elasticity that betrayed her—she did not look human.

She looked at him first. Her black eyes met his black eyes across the throng of dancers. Neither blinked.

But then she narrowed her eyes. _Not a real threat—not here._ And she came forward.

She was wary, but she showed no signs of attacking. _Neither would attack in this place._

When she reached his table, Edward stood and gestured to the seat across from him.

She eyed him with cautious amusement, and her eyes pointed to the chair. "May I?" She kept her hands at her sides.

Edward bowed his head. "You may."

"Now..." she ran her tongue across her bottom teeth—the action was intended to be both seductive and threatening, though it had neither effect on Edward. She leaned toward him. "You are not in home territory, are you?" She sprawled out all ten fingers like claws and then leaned forward, taking in a long draw of breath.

"I did not mean to impede. My apologies."

"I'm trying to decide how you can best earn my forgiveness." She leaned in closer to him, and Edward could hear her sizing him up in her thoughts—she liked what she saw.

Edward ignored her previous comment and thoughts, and extended his hand. "My apologies, regardless, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Edward."

She gave a short laugh, and then offered her hand. "Prudence."

He kissed the cold skin over her knuckles quickly and then released her hand.

And then they both sat back in their chairs, studying one another.

"Why are you here?"

"The music is to my taste."

She sat forward, peering at him more closely. "You like jazz to accompany your wine and cheese, would that be it?"

"I like the music. That is all. I'm not here to hunt."

"You're not good fun, are you?" His eyes had not responded to her.

"My apologies."

She rolled her head slightly to the side, obviously already tiring of the conversation. "Well, I suppose I ought to tend to my _business_ then." Prudence gazed out across the room with a single finger resting on her bottom lip. "Now, who tonight? The drug store cowboy with the taste for cheap tweed or the traveling salesman near the door."

Edward caught their thoughts. The younger one was focused on ogling every last female in the room, but while his thoughts were eager, they weren't lascivious. But the other man, though quiet, was focused on the vamp at Edward's side, and his thoughts weren't that of love and sweet innocence. They seemed... _violent._

"Take _him._ " Edward nodded subtly. "He'll give you a fight."

"Mmmm, I like a man with a good fight," she murmured, as she drew a long finger down Edward's arm and stood to leave the table. She gave a single, final wink, and then Prudence disappeared into the swirl of bodies, gliding her way toward her prey.

Edward leaned back, repetitively telling himself he'd done a small grace, if a dark one.

And then Miss Iggy was marching back at the front of his table with a small clay mug on a tray.

"The noodle juice," she announced, holding the cup up with half-rolled eyes before plunking it down on the table.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome—and I see you had company." She looked over in the direction of Prudence on the opposite side of the floor. The vampire was leaning into the salesman, though she wasn't touching him. The salesman was openly eying her up and down. "I was surprised she talked to _you_ ," Miss Iggy declared with a bob of the head.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, normally that crasseux voodoo witch only like the _uglies_ —so I don't know why she be talkin to you? She was here last week, picking up on some hobo with a big ass, and the week before that she came in and stuck her bubs in the face of some Dallas wanna-be floor flusher with bean poles for legs. Like I said," and she squished up her nose in revulsion, "she like dem uuga-ugggggly."

Edward opened his mouth to contradict her because he knew the vamp across the room could hear, and if Miss Iggy kept going...

And it would appear she was just getting started. "And that sneaky quiff, let me tell you, she thinks she's got the magical poonany, but no, Sir! From a distance she look like any other Creole, but you get up close, and there aint' doubt about it, her coloring is creepy, honey-mustard but like somebody dun stuck a lamp under it. And she never dances, just walks around waggling her hips like she's a damned Queen cat in heat."

Edward faked a laugh and kept his face concentrated on Miss Iggy, but his mind was almost entirely focused on Prudence—who was pissed—and not in the mildly irritated, socially offended sort of way, but rather in the way she-wolf would take down a lowly canine bitch that impeded her authority.

"Ay, then," Miss Iggy added, giving the table an extra pat. "You taste that and tell me what you think of it—ain't no soul ordered tea in this joint since All Souls Day, and we was out of coffee—so dem leaves are probably stale." And then she started to leave.

Edward caught the edge of her sleeve before she could turn. "What are they playing now?"

Miss Iggy eyed his fingers on her sleeve askance and then she looked at him like he was pulling-her leg. "How the hell do you claim to know Hogan but not know Ray Henderson?"

"Oh," Edward elongated the sound. "It _is_ Ray. I've only ever heard this on the piano."

"That's nice." And she turned to leave again.

"Miss Iggy—wait!"

She turned back to face him with both hands on her hips. "You acting like you actually like my company or something. What exactly is your business, Sir?"

By the door, he saw Prudence watching him. Her mouth was set in a tight line. Her thoughts were only half-focused on the salesmen. Edward answered Miss Iggy with a light tone, "You're entertaining—and you know about jazz."

She frowned at him and then scoffed out loud. "Benny put you up to this—didn't he? That ole coot's plays one game after the next after he takes to the bottle. Likes to bug me until I hit him." She shook her head.

Across the bar, the salesman asked Prudence if she'd like to "go for a walk."

"Benny seems like a charitable fellow," Edward answered Miss Iggy, and he kept his face passive as he heard Prudence answer, "yes," and link her arm with salesman and make for the door.

"What the hell you talking 'bout? Benny is an ass if there ever was one."

Edward laughed and gave a final sigh of relief as Prudence and salesman left the building. "Nothing, really. Nothing..." he trailed off, and then he shook his head slightly, so as to clear his thoughts, and said, "Thanks for the tea."

She nodded slowly. She found him odd. "Well, enjoy," she added, and as she walked away, Edward heard her under her breath mutter, "Nasty stuff."

If only she knew what he really drank.

\+ l + l +

When Miss Iggy finally left the place, it was close to five AM and sun rise wasn't for long.

Edward kept pace with her at a distance. As far as he could tell, no threat existed. He'd follow Prudence's thoughts for at least two miles east until they'd seized upon the screaming taste of blood, and then her thoughts had faded into nothing more than a buzz.

But there had been that edge to her thoughts—he was worried. And after she had shown her irritation, she hadn't liked it when Edward kept talking to the human.

Carlisle had warned him about other vampires, "more animal than human," he described. He'd only met the occasional nomad friend of Carlisle's, and even those he had met, he'd felt... _uneasy_ around. It's always been the eyes. He hadn't liked the red. He didn't even like the red in his eyes now. He never looked in mirrors, anymore.

The thoughts made him ponder what his earlier version of his self would have thought of the current one, should they have met. Would he have been unnerved? Probably intrigued. Probably horrified. Who could truly know?

He was dragged from his musing when he caught the approach of inhuman thought.

It was her—and another.

Edward headed them off at the alley.

Prudence stood in front with her companion, a tall female with a curly mane that extended down to her waist. They both hissed upon seeing him.

Edward didn't flinch.

Prudence spoke first. "I thought you were only in town for the music, Edward, but I don't think that's true..." she trailed off because she was trying to assess him, trying to figure out whether this was an attempt to usurp her from her territory or because he had some sort of strange hunting game going on with that bitch barmaid from the floor show. _Either way_...

"It's not what you think," Edward countered. He was wary. Both of the vampires seemed older, and the subtlest of quivers in their thighs indicated that they could spring at any moment. "Choose any other human."

"And you'll make an aperitif of her?" the companion cooed in a false tone.

But Prudence was watching him with a grimace. "Do not tell... You _like_ her don't you? She fed you her little tale about her adorable family—and now you want to protect her!" And then she laughed, hands on both hips, cackling madly at her epiphany.

"Is that so horrible?" Edward asked tonelessly.

"No—it's _pathetic_ ," she returned.

And then her companion spoke, "You see, Prudence promised me the human for dinner—said she had a mouth on her—Prudence knows I like that—when they scream and curse. But you're right, if she has children, we shouldn't leave the mites in the gutter, should we?" She turned to Prudence. "How about we add them on for dessert, Pru?"

"Fine idea," Prudence agreed with a sneer at Edward.

Edward took a step forward.

The females crouched down.

 _The odds weren't good._ _He'd never been in a fight before, but he was fast... He could leave._

_No._

He spoke in a snarl. "Leave now—"

But he never finished because both vampires lunged.

Edward reacted by instinct, his mind translating their intentions and reacting on its own. Prudence snatched at his left arm, the other lunged toward his leg—Edward flipped backward.

Prudence went skidding across the cobble stone, the stones ripping up as her rock body tore through them, but the other vampire found her footing and lunged again from his side.

Her teeth made to seem like they aimed for his side and then she parried to get his neck.

But her teeth did not connect.

Instead, Edward saw the switch before it happened and took advantage. His knee caught her stomach, sending her sprawling back, and as she flew back, Edward jumped, sank his teeth into the stone flesh of her thigh. His teeth cut into the sarccharine, steely flesh.

There was a squeal and a cry, and Edward crouched low as Prudence tried to tackle him from behind, and then the partner vampire pushed off awkwardly with her two arms and one leg, but it was a suicide move, because Edward caught her by the shoulders and evading her mouth, he flipped her.

There was no second of hesitation. Whatever hell-creature that lurked inside of him saw nothing but a smooth tan target. His top teeth cut first, slicing through sticky tendrils of hair and smooth bands of ligament, and then he pushed her body one way while his teeth tore another direction.

He tossed the severed corpse at the leaping Prudence.

There was the smack and the fall, and Prudence was snarling and ferocious and ready to lunge again, but then... a wicked smile.

She vaulted out of the aisle and down the street. Her destination was clear in her mind: the second story window—where Miss Iggy slept.

But Prudence underestimated Edward.

He was _fast._

He caught her heels before she could spring.

And they barreled to the left, crashing into the small white fence and sending cracked boards and splinters flying.

Her foot came up—she was aiming for his crotch.

He kicked her leg away, but it left him unbalanced.

Her hand cuffed his wrist to the ground. He only managed to tear the front of her dress with his hands, but then her knee came up—which his hand blocked, but then her breast was visible in front of him, and he couldn't... so he kicked her to the side instead, and his teeth caught the edge of her calf.

Her snarl reverberated down the street, and her fingers clawed at his face.

He caught two of them in his mouth, and his teeth sliced through—and only shining white stubs remained, and then her hand was spritzing venom, and he had her caught by the hair, and she tried to grab at his neck, but her mangled fingers found no grip.

He separated her mind from body with a thundering crack.

And it was done.

Pushing himself away from the still corpse, Edward took in his surroundings for the first time. He paused when he saw the upstairs light flick on.

Miss Iggy's face was looking out, staring into the dark. She'd heard the unearthly noises... _like ghost and demons going mad in the street._ She shuddered suddenly and stepped back, as if expecting something to leap out of the darkness at any second. With a final sigh, she pushed the curtain back together and went to lay in her bed.

The sun would rise soon.

Edward collected the body parts and piled them with driftwood in an empty alleyway. A single match sent the entire mound aflame.

He left without looking back. And as he made his way back to the open boulevard, his excellent hearing could still hear faint hissing.

He told himself it was the sizzle of the flame.

\+ l + l +

March 12, 2005 - Forks, Washington

\+ l + l +

Falling in love with Bella brought about the strangest strata of thought. It came like piano notes. One dark. One light. One high. One low. One with a shivering base. And then a sharp tenor.

He tried to remember what he was doing on the day she was born. On a hunting trip with his family—he'd gone off with Emmett, he was almost sure, and they had both caught bears. He wondered how it would be if he and Bella could...

He suppressed that thought with self-fury.

He thought of the past instead. Of the failure of his own heart and mind to be open for another. Love for Edward had always been surrounded by death—it reminded him of the last kiss so many decades before. Death but also...

And then that thought caught flight, and in the next second, he closed his eyes and traced his own lips with cool fingers, trying to remember the warmth and pressure and softness from Bella's sweet mouth. Bella liked to bite at his lower lip when she kissed him, like she was trying to eat it away.

And he felt himself tense below as he recalled the morning: the sharp contrast of the red highlights in her hair as the sunrise had bounced off her wet tresses. She had rushed out of the bathroom, freshly showered, and was flustered, pink-cheeked and dashing about because she was late for the start of classes. The black-red strands has flailed, passionate and valentine against her white heart-shaped face.

He knew what he wanted to do. Whatever Peter had said—vampires weren't like _pigeons_. This instinct... The drive was feral. He wanted to claim her. To rip inside her sex and watch her eyes when pain mixed with pleasure. To impetuously clamor for every inch of her pale skin. To sing to her while he lay her on the altar. To drink the goblet and anoint every inch with bites and kissing and hands and loud sucks on her silken flesh.

This was why he needed to hold himself back. Restrain the demon to his dungeon.

As they made to leave, he kissed her against the door of her truck, pulling her to him and attacking her mouth but with every restraint, the litany of _no-no-nos_ holding back the floodgates while the _yes-yes-yes-yesses_ foamed and frothed and wanted to glug and gulp the inky Cabernet pulsing beneath her fair flesh.

Edward followed Bella's truck through the woods until she made it to the school. He'd stood at the edge of the forest again, following her through the minds of passing students. He grinned like a dunce when he saw Bella's quiet face break into a tight and secret smile as she opened her locker.

Then his commitment to his patients pulled him away.

One patient after the next.

During Ben's appointment, Ben and Edward dribbled thoughtlessly, the both of them love drunk puppies on the basketball court. Ben had missed basket after basket and yet never seemed to notice. Instead, Ben spoke of Angela: that they had gotten together in Port Angeles, that she "liked him," and that they'd gone on a date the night before.

Edward, listening carefully, made the mistake of making basket after basket, and after he made three-pointer from the far end of the court, Ben had finally noticed.

"Wow—that was really good."

"Oh, thanks," Edward replied, and after that instance he made more of an effort to concentrate on Ben and not memories naked collar bones and the way still-sleepy eyes would tense then blink wide in the morning—like the pull of stage curtains on the opening act.

Friday evening was spent with Bella in her room. Charlie had gone to assist with a car accident. They were curled up in her bed. Bella was starting _A Hundred Years of Solitude_ for the book club tomorrow.

He had teased her about waiting until the last minute.

But then she tossed the book down onto her comforter with a huff.

"You don't like it?" Edward asked curiously.

"No—I do like it, very much," Bella insisted, but then she pressed her lips in a tight line and smiled with narrow eyes at him. "It's just that you are rather distracting, and I'm having a hard time getting into the flow of it."

Edward laughed. "Am I?"

"You have no idea," she muttered with fake reproach, and then she scooted toward him. Her hair fell down as she leaned over, and he watched the tips trail across his chest as Bella crawled up in front of him.

"I thought you wanted to _read_ , Bella." He was smirking at her lips. So close.

"You said we had to stop—keep control and all—so I suggested _reading_ , but I never said it was my _first_ choice."

Edward ran a finger along her jaw line. "I like watching you read," he murmured.

Bella opened her mouth to argue but bit her tongue instead. "Actually," she paused as if he to gauge his reaction, "I like it when you read..." She smiled widely at him before asking, "Would you read to me?"

Edward nodded, and then chuckled at Bella's giddy expression. She popped a quick peck on his lips, before she turned around in his lap and sat, leaning back against his chest. She pushed the book into his hands.

And so Edward began to read from where Bella had left off.

_"At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point..."_

Having never had a reason to read aloud before, Edward found himself enjoying this rereading more than his first read through, because this time he had Bella, and he watched from his periphery as her eyes kept glued to each word as he read them.

It was only when they were a few chapters into the book that Edward paused. More than a few passages had been on the "romantic" side, but for whatever reason, this passage had caused Bella's heart to race while the others had not. But at his pause, Bella tapped his arm. "Please keep reading," she implored, and yet while her tone was sweet, her eyes were mischievous.

And so Edward read in his most clinical voice.

It didn't help.

"... _He pressed against her back. The girl tried to separate herself, but José Arcadio pressed more strongly against her back. Then she felt him. She remained motionless against him, trembling with surprise and fear, unable to believe the evidence, and finally, she turned her head and looked at him with a tremulous smile.._."

And while Bella had seemed so innocent of the acts in the prior chapters, this small scene had seemed to grip her, because Bella, herself, pressed against his back, was shifting back and forth, so that her butt was rubbing ever so slightly against...

Edward rushed on with his clinical reading.

"... _José Arcadio and the gypsy girl did not witness the decapitation. They went to her tent, where they kissed each other with a desperate anxiety while they took their clothes. The gypsy girl removed the starched lace corsets she had on, and there she was, changed into practically nothing. She was a languid little frog, with incipient breasts and legs so thin that they did not even match the size of José Arcadio's arms, but she had decision and warmth that compensated for her fragility.._."

And then Edward had to stop, because he could feel shivers licking up and down Bella's spine. She was trembling—and the smell in the air... cloying pheromones and clean sweat and the musk of Bella's sex.

When Bella turned, her eyes were unfocused and her breathing, staccato. She wrapped her arms around Edward's neck as she put her knees on either side of him. "Edward do you think we'll ever be able to...?" she trailed off.

Edward wanted to kill himself in that moment. He wanted to kill himself because the question went straight to his erection. Because, yes, he wanted to do everything imaginable to her. Everything that ninety years of inadvertent mental voyeurism could muster, and perhaps with his own creativity—more. And yet... He bound his hands into fists at his sides. "Bella, I cannot think that way—I could kill..."

"I don't think you'd kill me," she sputtered in a single breath.

He was about protest when Bella lunged at him, hands fisted into his hair and eyes squeezed shut. And it wasn't just the sweet give of her hot mouth but also the way she clutched at him, with hips pressed down and rigid and breasts smashed against his chest and easily felt through the fabric of his shirt. And then as if she had no sense of self-preservation at all, she whimpered a low, trembling moan as her lips and teeth caught at his upper lip.

And then his hands were moving, up her waist and along the edges of breast and then back down again, pushing against her ass and then pulling back...

Until he realized that his mouth was pressed against her neck.

And the venom seemed to surge up the raging burn in his throat.

In the next blink, Edward was on the other side of the room—and Bella was sprawled across her bed, hair in tangles and still blinking as her eyes focused on him.

"Must hunt—read your book," he rasped.

She gave a single nod.

He ran.

\+ l + l +

March 13, 2005 - Port Angeles, Washington

\+ l + l +

Saturday was spent at Bella's.

He did not read to her anymore, though he caught her looking at him as she read through certain sections.

He was most disgruntled when he finally had to give her up to her book club.

Charlie called, "Bella...!" up the steps, and they had needed to untwine themselves.

When Bella made it down the steps, Maggie and Charlie were there, both shuffling their feet and making shy small talk. Maggie had made the excuse to come by and pick up Bella.

"Thank you for taking Bella, I know it's a long way—"

"It was no trouble," Maggie insisted. "I needed to pick up a new pair of boots from Newton's." Maggie held up the bag from Newton's as evidence.

It was a poor excuse—and yet, neither Charlie nor Bella questioned it, at least not aloud.

And then Bella and Maggie drove out to the book club at the library in Port Angeles. The book club was an odd grouping—one dowdy old broad, a pink-faced nurse with jittery hands, an old banker named Bruce, and Maggie. Bella seemed comfortable in the setting. She said at least as much as she did during an entire school day. And yet Edward wished she would say more... he'd seen her smirk when they discussed the gypsy, and he'd also seen the furrow in her brow when they'd discussed the Philosopher's stone...

After the book club ended, Charlie met Maggie and Bella outside. Charlie had driven the truck up for Bella to take back to Forks, and he and Maggie were heading out on their date.

"You'll be safe getting home, Bella?" Charlie asked in a gruff demand. Even if Charlie didn't blush as his daughter did, he was obviously nervous. Edward sensed it from the odd feel of his thoughts: like fly fishing after not doing it for a decade.

"I'll be fine." Bella was hiding a giggle.

"Oh, well, okay. I guess I'll be, um, off then?" Charlie smiled weakly at her.

Bella gave him a hug that included a reassuring pat on the back.

And then Charlie had turned to Maggie. "Ready?"

"Ready," Maggie replied, her eyes going wider than normal.

Bella forcibly shoved her father into Maggie's car, going so far as to open the door for him and press on his back until he slid in.

But then—finally—Maggie and Charlie were gone.

And Edward slid from the shadows, relieved to be returned to her for the evening. They got in her truck and drove home, discussing Maggie and Charlie.

At last, they made it to her house, and then they were in her room on her bed. Bella leaned against pillows while Edward lay at her side. Their fingers were intertwined, her warm digits interlocked with his cold ones. He was the first to break their comfortable silence, "So what was your final opinion on _A Hundred Years of Solitude_? You didn't say much—and _you_ were the one that chose the book."

"I meant what I said." Bella waved her hand dismissively as she snuggled closer against him. "I thought the book was beautiful, although it wasn't what I expected."

Edward chuckled. "You mean the book wasn't an insight into my hundred year-old person?"

Bella shrugged and extended her legs out so that her bare toes were touching his leg. "A few of the women mentioned Garcia Marquez's other book, _Love in the Time of Cholera._ Love after a waiting an entire lifetime, I suppose I should read that?" She tried to keep her expression flat, but her eyes were _too_ innocent.

"Ah, yes, the consummation of a love when they're both in wrinkles. And this occurs, of course, only after her much richer, more stable and better-looking husband has kicked the bucket and left her free."

"You don't have wrinkles."

"But I have lived for more than a hundred years."

Bella shrugged and then grinned. "You're an old soul with a young body."

Edward frowned. "Just old—vampires don't get the wings and halos," he corrected.

Bella quirked an eyebrow. "That seems like a pretty negative view for a supposed psychologist."

"There's no 'supposed' about it. I am a psychologist—been to medical school twice and everything, and I have a PhD in Psychology—not that it matters." He tapped his temple with a smirk.

Bella put her hands on her hips. "Back to the wings and halos…" she grumbled.

"Oh, how horrible, that I should focus on the finer aspects of this situation?" His eyes rolled down her form, and he moved to kiss her.

"St-s-stop!" She looked frazzled as she pressed her palms flat against his chest. "You seriously think you're bad somehow? You're not."

Edward pursed his lips and then laid back, crossing his arms over his head as he leant against the headboard. "Vampires are undead. We don't have souls. The teeth, poisonous venom, super human strength, and genuine desire to dine on humankind would be evidence to the contrary."

"I think you're a good person—just because you're not human, it doesn't make you evil. There's no reason to assume you don't have a soul."

"Killers don't have souls."

She turned thoughtful then, as if the idea had only just occurred to her. "You've killed people?"

"Once upon a time," Edward muttered in a soft but dark tone. There was a touch of sarcasm to it.

"Not for a long time? Alice told me…"

"Not for more than seventy years. I had what Carlisle likes to call my 'rebellious period.'" Edward paused, assessing Bella's face at his confession. He should have expected it—Bella being Bella, but her face portrayed no fear. She only looked interested, at most he could say "worried," so he continued, "I left Carlisle and Esme because of my blood lust. I resented being restrained, and I thought that with my powers I could discriminate effectively, only kill the 'bad guys.'"

Bella gazed at him for a long moment, her expression shifting between concern and what appeared to be disbelief. He blinked when she gave a sharp scoff. "And you say you don't have a soul." She shook her head at him.

"Killing is always a soulless act, no matter the creature, no matter the circumstances, no matter the justification—the act itself is always soulless."

Bella's jaw was set. "But you stopped."

And Edward thought of Alice's vision—of what would have come to pass without his sister's foresight: Bella dead in his arms. The victim of his inner demon. The recollection made him shudder at the same time that it caused the swell of venom in his throat. "It never goes away…" he sighed.

"But you only killed those that deserved it," she tried to soothe.

"Can you truly argue that anyone can perfectly know who truly _deserves_ it? If you believe that time has absolved me, that I am capable of redemption, what about them? They may have done wrong, but were they, too, beyond redemption? You can forgive me, but I didn't forgive them—I killed them."

"But you're a vampire. By not killing them, humans— _me_ —now, you're beating your own instincts."

"And what's to say there aren't people with bad impulses that overcome them every day?"

Bella leaned forward, her chin resting on her fist. She had that assessing look on her face again. "It's why you became a therapist?"

Edward let his head fall back. " _People_ —humans—do have souls. They can change. They can grow. They can redeem themselves on their deathbed. Most people aren't bad—not really—but they can become ill-minded. Fate and situation can make a good person commit awful acts—and then a person becomes trapped in their guilt and anger. They only know self-hate, pain, and failure. They are their own cages." Edward paused, seeming to realize how much he had said—he always seemed to confess himself to Bella.

" _You_ should never feel that way," she said in a low whisper.

He looked up at her. Her eyes were wide, and she swallowed as his eyes met hers. "I wasn't talking about me."

"Weren't you?" Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

"I was talking about souls. Human have souls. I am a vampire. I do not."

Bella's eyes flashed, and she gazed at him with a look that screamed fury. She had not accepted his words. That was clear—but as for the rest, the where and why of her expression...

He opened his mouth to reassure her but instead had to brace himself because she threw herself at him, not kissing him but clutching at him, her arms gripping onto his marble-hard back like flimsy yet tenacious vines. Edward responded by carefully wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her against him with his head bent and his cheek resting on her soft, thick crown of hair.

As the minutes passed, he expected Bella's breathing to soften, but instead, he felt the pace of her heart accelerate and grow only more erratic. He felt her facial muscles stiffen in the crook of his neck, and so he raised his head off of hers because he could feel that Bella had worked herself into a temper. He leaned back expecting the worst.

But when she raised her head, he saw tears pooling in the corner of her eyes.

"Oh, God, I—" he began in a haste.

But she held up a hand. In spite of her wet cheeks, he expression was a cross one—not stricken. "I'm not sad," she rushed out in a single exhale. She wiped her hand with a frustrated swipe over her eyes. "I just cry when I get angry. I hate it, but it makes me cry."

"You're angry?"

"I hate that you think of yourself that way."

"I'm happy when you're with me," he said in a low voice, and he spoke with sincerity, because while he wanted to placate her, he also meant every word.

She gave him a quick, tight smile to acknowledge his words, and then her face returned to its former state. "I think it's preposterous for you to believe you don't have a soul."

Edward closed his eyes and said nothing. _She wasn't letting this go._

Bella continued, "What is a 'soul,' anyway? Is it the conscience? Is it purely a religious fabrication? Or is it just a way for you to define good and evil? Either way, Edward, you are _good_."

"A soul is the immortal manifestation of the human spirit," Edward stated in a flat tone.

"Just because you become a vampire doesn't mean that you don't have spirit—immortal or mortal or however you would have it."

"Vampires don't work that way. It's like changing from a lamb to a lion. When you become a vampire, you change into a leech, a cannibal, a murderer. My family does not hunt humans, but we still hunt. We take down our prey. We kill."

Bella shook her head. "You are vegetarians," she insisted.

Edward scoffed. _A vegetarian vampire—like an altar boy arguing to his priest that 'beating the bishop' was better than screwing the hot Lutheran neighbor girl..._ "Carlisle is the only one that has never murdered anyone."

"You're missing the bigger picture. When you say that you don't have a soul, I don't believe you."

"I got that."

She ignored him and continued, "And I don't believe you because I've seen what you do. You help people. Maggie. Ben." And then in a much softer voice, she said, "Me."

"Bella," Edward sighed.

"No—you say you don't have a soul, but I don't believe you, and how could I?" Her eyes closed, and she gasped out the next words, "Do you think I could _love_ someone 'soulless' as you say? You are not—"

 _She said she_ loved _him._

She didn't get to finish because Edward grabbed her shoulders and pulled her mouth to his, and he pressed his lips against hers with fever and happiness and every desire to ignore the odd and theoretical and focus only on the concrete and physical presence of Bella, and the odd pressure that filled the empty space.

"Ierumneed—to—Imnotfinished—speaking," Bella gasped out between kisses.

"You said you 'loved me.'"

She blushed.

I love you, too."

Her face went from astonished to blissful, and he kissed her long and slowly, but then after a minute, she thumped her hand on his chest. "You are soooo distracting."

"Sorry."

And her face softened again, smiling at whatever expression controlled his features. "I love, and I hate that—that," she paused. She closed her eyes and took a breath. "It feels _wrong_ for you to not be happy in the fullest. I love you as you are—and you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. Edward, you're a vampire—it just makes you capable of more—more evil, more good. And I think," she took another breath. "I think you are good."

Edward reached up and brushed his hand across her face, almost wishing he could wipe away her expression—her faith in him—and yet also wishing he could keep it forever.

\+ l + l +

Edward left later that night to hunt.

He stopped by home first—and then wished he hadn't.

"Nice of you to finally join us," Rosalie called from the upstairs.

And then she appeared in the living room with a smiling Emmett at her side.

 _Edward Sugarhands!_ "You smell like Bella was lovin' on you," Emmett asserted with a wide grin.

Edward ignored him.

And then Carlisle was here. "Have a nice day?" _He does need to be careful, although if there ever was a vampire who could have the restraint..._

Esme was at his side with a burgeoning smile on her face. _Edward, you look_ _ **so**_ _happy._

And Jasper called down from upstairs, "Bite 'er, yet?"

Edward turned on his heel and went back out the door.

 _Bye, Edward..._ He heard the all-knowing smugness of Alice's farewell.

\+ l + l +

March 14, 2005 - Queets, Washington

\+ l + l +

The next morning Bella met Edward at a quiet little inn in Queets, just off the 101. Edward had suggested the place. He'd heard about it before and insisted on taking Bella there. She had protested at first, but then he'd won her over, reassuring her that _no_ , it wasn't expensive and _no_ , no one would "out" them. The inn had a quaint little cafe, and they found a table in the back. Bella's hair was tied up while Edward had his hair smashed down with a Cubs baseball cap.

"I don't think anyone would recognize you as Doctor Cullen," Bella assessed, after looking him over.

"It's unlikely anyone would, anyway. Alice didn't see any problems with us coming here."

Bella nodded thoughtfully.

"How was Charlie this morning?" Edward asked.

Bella giggled. "He was whistling."

"Does he normally whistle?" Edward had never heard him whistle before...

"I don't think so?"

"Interesting."

Bella smiled and looked down at the menu. "Eggs Benedict for me?"

"And you can have some of my pancakes."

That made Bella laugh. "Order the French toast, instead, would you?"

It was only later, after Bella's food had arrived, and she had adorably and indelicately attacked her plate, that Bella had asked him the question.

"How do you become a vampire?"

The question shocked Edward out of his quiet musing. He had stared at her for a long second, asking himself firstly why she wanted to know, secondly whether or not it was natural for her to want to know, and thirdly how he could avoid telling her anything without getting into her bad graces.

"Another vampire changes you—oh, and your eggs look undercooked. Do you want me to send them back?"

Bella stared down at her plate and then stared back up at him with narrow eyes. "I like my eggs this way. And you, you're..."

"I'm what?" Edward asked with a guileless expression.

Her mouth set in a firm line, and then, instead of answering, she forked a chunk of the French toast from the plate pretending to sit in front of him. She slid the syrupy bread slowly into her mouth. Her teeth scraped against the fork as she pulled it out.

Edward didn't know exactly what Bella was thinking, but there seemed to be an implicit message in her eyes as she chewed the sticky sweetness:

_Mine._

\+ l + l +

After brunch, Bella went home to do laundry. After laundry, Bella was going to meet Angela for a coffee at the esteemed Forks Café. Edward had seen the torn look on Bella's face when she'd received Angela's message from Charlie. On one hand, being apart was painful. On the other hand... everything that he had worked for Bella to achieve—to be human—could not be swept aside because he'd gone from doctor to boyfriend, and regardless, in either role, he needed to put Bella's needs first.

He insisted that she go.

She had argued with her eyes.

He'd countered with a kiss goodbye.

She'd acquiesced.

But he hated being away from her.

So he'd gone to the piano and began picking out notes, and then he'd started playing _that_ song again... the song that made the whole house seem to quiet and the world to slip away.

Not even a stanza in, and Esme was at his side on the piano bench. Her thoughts were surprised. She put her hand on his shoulder and asked quietly, "You changed it?"

Edward shrugged and kept playing.

"You changed it," she declared, and her voice was happy and relieved, and then Esme starting humming along to the music, but Edward played along with her, singing his own lyrics in his head:

 _If love could light a candle,_  
if fire could soothe the nightmares,  
if memory and thought would move in tandem,  
if dying stars could ask the prayers...

Esme hummed along with closed eyes.

They were interrupted when Emmett ebulliently charged into the room.

Jasper strolled in right behind him with a look of anticipation on his face and announced, "Alice said it's going to thunderstorm."

By the time Emmet shouted "Let's play ball!" Edward was already nodding.

\+ l + l +

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1930's hurricanes: en(dot)wikipedia(dot)org/wiki/1930_Atlantic_hurricane_season#Hurricane_One  
> Sidewalk—French meaning a small bank along the road  
> Bayou (by' you) -Slow stream, or body of water running through a marsh or swamp.  
> Cajun (kay' jun) - French Acadians that settled here from Canada  
> Camelback (cam' l bak) - A single row house with the back half made into a two story. The front section remains a single.  
> Crescent City - A nickname for New Orleans, originating from the shape of the Mississippi River as it bends around the city  
> Creole (Cree' ole) - Descendents of French, Spanish, and Caribbean slaves and natives; also come to mean any person whose ancestry derives from the mixed nationalities in the Caribbean.  
> Dressed - Sandwiches served with lettuce, tomatoes and mayonnaise—"the works"  
> (And, of course...the way those with class catch their Mardi Gras throws!)  
> "N'awlins" - "New Orleans"  
> Neutral Ground - Median or grassy area between the paved areas on a boulevard  
> Picayune (Pic' ee yoon) - Small, nit-picky (Spanish coin worth more than a nickel and less than a dime—6-1/4 cents to be precise) - Name of our only daily newspaper, the "Times Picayune"  
> Vieux Carre' (Vooo ca ray') (View ca ray') - French for "Old Quarter", this is a term used for the French Quarter including world-famous Bourbon Street.... experience it in any of our French Quarter Hotels.  
> Voodoo (Voo' doo) - New Orleans voodoo became synchronized with the Catholic religion and Francophone culture of South Louisiana as a result of the slave trade. It differs from Haitian Voodoo in its emphasis upon Gris-gris, voodoo queens, use of "Hoodoo" occult paraphernalia and Li Grand Zombie (snake deity). This emphasis has marked the culture of Afro Diaspora, francophone Louisiana within the Western media.  
> "Bourre" (BOO ray) - "Wildly popular way to gamble on the old riverboats, and still is among Cajuns. Makes high-stakes poker look like Old Maid- it's that vicious. I love it!" P.S. the term "coon ass" for Cajun comes from the English corruption of "cannas", meaning a country bumpkin.  
> "Pass a Good Time" - Have a good time.  
> "Beaucoup crasseux" (boo coo cra sue) - very dirty.  
> Shagging - (not sex) dancing  
> bell bottom: a sailor  
> bubs: breasts  
> Drugstore cowboy: A well-dressed man who loiters in public areas trying to pick up women.  
> Ethel: an effeminate male.  
> floor flusher: an insatiable dancer  
> Half seas over: drunk, also "half under."  
> noodle juice: tea  
> ofay: a commonly used Black expression for Whites  
> quiff: a slut or cheap prostitute  
> Ragtime: Appeared as sheet music, popularized by African American musicians such as the entertainer Ernest Hogan, whose hit songs appeared in 1895; two years later Vess Ossman recorded a medley of these songs as a banjo solo "Rag Time Medley." Also in 1897, the white composer William H. Krell published his "Mississippi Rag" as the first written piano instrumental ragtime piece, and Tom Turpin published his Harlem Rag, that was the first rag published by an African-American. The classically-trained pianist Scott Joplin produced his "Original Rags" in the following year, and then in 1899 had an international hit with "Maple Leaf Rag." He wrote numerous popular rags, including, "The Entertainer," combining syncopation, banjo figurations and sometimes call-and-response, which led to the ragtime idiom being taken up by classical composers including Claude Debussy and Igor Stravinsky.  
> New Orleans Jazz: Many early jazz performers played in the brothels and bars of red-light district around Basin Street called "Storyville." In addition, numerous marching bands played at lavish funerals arranged by the African American community. Small bands of primarily self-taught African American musicians, many of whom came from the funeral-procession tradition of New Orleans, played a seminal role in the development and dissemination of early jazz, traveling throughout Black communities in the Deep South.  
> Jelly Roll Morton began his career in Storyville. From 1904, he toured with vaudeville shows around southern cities, also playing in Chicago and New York. His "Jelly Roll Blues," which he composed around 1905, was published in 1915 as the first jazz arrangement in print, introducing more musicians to the New Orleans style.   
> I referenced A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole - the book about New Orleans was published post-humously after his suicide. The dialog is amazing.


	9. The Songs of Past

\+ l + l +

November 1, 1930

\+ l + l +

"Don't touch that," Doc Cochrane crowed as he spied Edward.

Edward had been running his index finger down the spine of the book on the Doc's desk, _The Human Mind_ by Karl Menninger. Edward glanced up and smiled at the older man. "My apologies, Doc, it's just that I didn't know you were a fan of Menninger," Edward replied without any trace of ruefulness in his tone.

"Damned know-it-all. Go ahead and take it if you must. Might as well, you've borrowed all my other books."

"Thank you for lending them to me."

"Oh, 'lending!' Is that what you call walking off with another person's possessions?"

"I always bring them back—and in the same condition I received them."

Dr. Cochrane gave him a long and flat stare. _Wouldn't believe you'd read them, except that you recite them back to me word-for-word..._

Edward had to fight back a smile. "About Menninger...?"

Doc laid a loud smack down onto the book. "Menninger is a sentimental simpleton" _with more funds and popularity than I ever had._

"With whom you agree?"

"Don't play the Socratic method, boy. Why the hell do you think we're here?" But then he paused. "Well, we know why I'm here. Still don't know why the hell your father sent you to annoy me."

"You're a beloved old friend." Edward smiled before turning and sitting down on the bench. He crossed his legs and stared expectantly up at the good doctor.

"Menninger would be passable if he wasn't a bleeding Presbyterian."

"That's very kind."

"Exorcising demons out of patients is another way to torture already tortured people."

"You don't believe in demons?"

"If only your head was as smart as your ass. I'm an unmarried, rich, over-educated, misanthropic, atheist half-Jewish asshole from Poland—a fucking recipe for popularity on the local dinner party circuit. Assigning demons to sick people is just another fucked up way of pushing away what we don't understand—not that I'm familiar with that or anything."

"With such a genteel disposition, I'm shocked the local _dames_ aren't insisting on your weekly attendance as the guest of honor."

Doc gave an overly exaggerated scoff, before asking, "So what do you have to whine about today?"

"Quincy needs a good kick in the ass."

Doc ignored Edward for a long moment, before replying thoughtfully, "He's coming off the bottle, what else would you expect?"

Edward folded his fingers together and shrugged.

Doc Cochrane then went and pulled at a telegram notice at the top of the page. He snatched it up, the swish of the paper and gentle crackle filling the room. "Now—you—scram. And don't forget to pick up Mick Mettler in the morning. You're picking him up by the way."

"Am I?"

"You're not staying here, Socrates Junior. You're in the way."

Edward smiled. Doc didn't really mean it. He just had to be that way.

Edward took the notice from Doc and made for the door.

\+ l + l +

Before the sun could peek over the horizon, Edward caught the white-tailed deer. He held it out in front of himself for a long minute, staring bleakly into the rolling white of the doe's abject stare. With efficiency, Edward bit down, while trying to remind himself that this creature deserved at least a modicum of dignity, that he as a vampire was neither a cat playing catch-and-release with a mouse under paw, nor a maladjusted whippersnapper forced to eat his undesired porridge. The doe was a guilt-free dinner, and that should be good enough— _except that the blood tasted like the third night of leftovers._

 _Although,_ Edward argued with himself _, it had managed to give him an actual chase—well, not much of one, but he certainly couldn't have_ _ **crawled**_ _after it._

Upon emptying the carcass, Edward flung it over a nearby pine branch. There was a hungry bear or two in the neighborhood that would take care of it.

_A bear would be nice..._

_No—_ he corrected himself. _He only allowed himself one carnivore per month._

With that reminder in his head, Edward set off towards town. He stopped momentarily to peer in a still creek. He could see his reflection clearly enough. His hair was immortally begging the question of a proper barber. His collar could use an iron. And his eyes...

He sighed. The irises were still _red_. Though not the scarlet crimson of earlier months, only a tinge of amber outlined the pupils. It would be months yet... _months_ before he could meet Carlisle and Esme with gold eyes and a clear conscience. The thought made Edward smile slightly, but then his face twisted in a frown as he once more caught his reflection.

Reaching into his trouser pocket, Edward pulled out the carefully folded letter. The letter had been in the hands of his solicitor when he stopped to make a withdrawal in Chicago.

_Dear Edward:_

_Our bags are packed once again. Esme had an accident. I think we're headed to New Brunswick or the Dakotas. I'm cannot provide you with an exact destination at this time. I'm letting Esme choose, though she hasn't decided yet. We may wander for a bit—I expect not for long. You know Esme, she likes to have a vase of homegrown roses on the table, so I'm sure that we'll settle down in weeks rather than months._

_I've been corresponding through a former colleague of mine—Frances Cochrane. He's a doctor outside of Scituate Station, Massachusetts. I must first warn you that you are never in any circumstances to call him anything but "Doc." Calling him Frances is asking for a firestorm. I knew him before I moved to Chicago. Before I knew you. I've told him you are traveling in the area. He knows to expect you. He's one of the most fascinating men that I've ever worked with, his work focusing on illnesses of the brain and spirit. I thought you might make his acquaintance. You'll like him. I'm confident in this._

_If you wish to correspond with us, please make his acquaintance. I will continue to send him word of Esme's and my whereabouts. It is my deepest wish that you would return to us. You are sorely missed._

_All my love,_

_Warm regards and best wishes,_

_Carlisle_

With a shake of the head, Edward stood. Carlisle had been right. He did like the doctor. He found it refreshing to be around someone more pessimistic than he was—relaxing, even. Doc Cochrane, whatever his faults, was a good man.

The day ahead of him, Edward followed the creek toward town. He had a job to do.

\+ l + l +

It was bleak and cloudy when the train finally pulled into the station. Regardless, Edward had his cap pulled down low as he leaned back against the column in the far corner of the platform. One or two of the folks waved at him. The town was far too friendly in his opinion.

The train approached down the tracks with the heavy chugging of engines, whining grind of gears, and high pitched screech of the horn. The passengers filtered out slowly, steps still uncertain with the lead drag of sleep. Ushers assisted mothers and young ladies and seniors. Edward's focus, however, was on the young man stepping off the car second from the back.

_Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.\ Sounds like ya stepped in a thistle. \ Man spilled coffee on your bean. \ Lady dumped tea o'er your queen. \ Ouch. That hurt! \ Don't Don't Don't scream! / Just whistle. Whistle. Whistle._

Mick Mettler hummed to his own internal rhyme, and he did not notice when Edward approached.

"Mick?" Edward asked, even though he knew exactly who he was.

"You're my age," Mick answered in reply. _But not... not with whistling going on between your ears._

"I'm here on behalf of Doc Cochrane," Edward explained. "He sent me to get you. He would have come himself, but he's not much of a morning person."

"And you already had breakfast," Mick said amicably—and the mental zip to the conclusion was completely enigmatic to Edward. The thought had really come from nowhere, like a gear had dropped the answer from a hidden chute. Mick's entire thought process was frazzled: thoughts of _whistling_. His gaze was focused on Edward's hands, oddly enough. _Smooth but not soft. Can't touch. They whistle._

Mick's brain seemed to convulse, thoughts pulsing in and out and a sharp series of screeches, like the mangling of violin strings, only to end in a final blip of thought: …s _piders on the whistle train!_

And then as if the situation couldn't grow any stranger, Mick suddenly shot off at a full run down the platform.

Edward and more than a few other individuals stared at the retreating figure.

Reluctantly, Edward chased after him.

\+ l + l +

Of the patients at Doc Cochrane's clinic, it was Mick that continued to bother Edward the most. Edward had been around mental "disorders" and the like before, but he'd never actually been obligated to stick around and put up with the painful symptoms.

Most of Doc's patients were the regular crop of a small port town. Stev Quincy stopped by on a regular basis for a good yelling from Doc. Doc gave those lectures gladly—it was because of those lectures that Quincy had stopped hitting the bottle—and more importantly, his wife. Next, Pomona Rawls was permanently sad. She was dying though, so Edward didn't see what she had to be all that happy about. Then there were the Doc's regular patients: the croupy babies, laborers with sliced fingers and broken bones, rich bankers with oozing syphilis pocks, and over-adventurous children with spider bites.

Doc's interest in mental health was a side-project.

"I can't afford for it to be more. No one takes me seriously as it is," he'd said when Edward asked.

Mick was the star on top the Christmas tree as far as Doc's "side project" went. Mick had spent most of his recent years in a private asylum. According to Doc's notes, the young man had been exorcised not one, not twice, but three times. Apparently, the local bishop had insisted the Mick contained an "indubitably persistent demon."

And though Doc had gone on many a long tangent on the topic, Edward was inclined to agree.

Mick's mind was...

Edward didn't know quite how to describe it. "Broken" was the first word that came to mind. But that wasn't quite the right description, because at times, Mick was entirely lucid, and when he was, he had the habit of curling into the corner of Doc's arm chair, holding his hands around his ankles and speaking politely and intelligently on all manner of conversation.

But then there were the other times...

Edward tended to think of the world in terms of an auditorium—like being in a busy city cafe—there were any number of conversations going on, but with a small amount of focus, he could tune them out.

This was not the case with Mick. Because when one of Mick's episodes hit, the auditorium melted. All of the voices screamed. No one was safe. Not Mick. Not Doc. Not Edward. Everyone's thoughts fell with a whining, whistling echo down the fanged and hungry chute.

The first time it happened, Mick had thrashed in the chair, his tongue had lolled out and only the whites of his eyes showed.

Edward had fled the room.

He'd gone down the hall, out the back door, and down the street toward a small bar. Pressed up against the wall, Edward could finally make out the distinct chatter and murmur of hidden thought inside. The total volume of it was sufficient to arrest the black hole sucking at his mind from Doc's office.

Edward came back hours later, after the episode was over.

Doc didn't say anything when he came in, and Mick was still curled up in the chair. As was his usual habit, he was whistling.

\+ l + l +

December 1, 1930

\+ l + l +

Edward didn't want to come into the office.

Mick was in another fit.

But the smell brought him in.

Doc's smell.

Edward smelled Doc's blood. He'd smelled it before when Doc once cut himself while he was cleaning some equipment. Edward had been more than proud of himself for resisting—even though it had been just a tiny cut. He had even allowed himself a date with a mountain lion that evening.

But now, Doc's blood...

It smelled _wrong_.

For Edward, going into the office was like going into a burning building.

There was no shutting out Mick. It was like a long knitting needle sliding into each of Edward's nostrils, down each ear canal and then stabbing up and into his brain over and over again. The way the black strands of thought seared their way through, Edward was moving more with automation than with real conscious intent.

When he opened the door to Doc's office, he saw them. Doc lay on the floor—except, Edward could tell now. There was no sound of a beating heart. No pulse. No breaths thick with the scent of pipe smoking.

And Mick. Mick was covered in blood. His own blood. There were long dripping crimson lines going down his arms. His cheeks were bleeding too. His nails... skin, blood. Edward saw. Self-inflicted. And then there was Doc's blood. The imprint of it was on Mick's thumb.

First Edward saw—smelled.

But then he heard. He heard it above the mental mania.

Mick was squealing like needles were poking his brain too—and Edward realized they probably, actually were—it was his brain that was bleeding—and an endless yipping and yowling of vowels that really only said _pain pain pain — no no no_ sputtered and dribbled from Mick's crimson lips.

Edward took one final, agonized breath, and then he grabbed Mick. One hand caught him beneath the underarm and the other caught him below the chin, so that he had Mick's eyes locked with his own.

Mick's hazel eyes went from rolling insanity to focused sentience.

Then, without provocation, Mick laughed. He laughed, and the blood on his face and the blood in his hair went flying and it slid in slow drops down Edward's jaw and cheek.

It made Edward tremble.

Edward trembled, and Mick laughed, and then Mick started to sing, " _The doctor couldn't whistle. God gave 'im his dismissal. The devil sang. And hence he came. And that is why we whistle_. _Whistle. Whistle. That is why we—_ "

But Mick didn't get to finish.

Because in the next second Edward's index finger flicked out, and Mick's head flew back with a _snap._

A second later and the pain was gone from Edward's head, and he was breathing—and oh, god, the smell.

And the...

And the drop of red on his lips.

He tongue pressed forward, tasted—and then Edward's throat pulled his body. Teeth cut flesh.

When Mick's blue-lipped figure slumped to the floor, Edward turned to search over the cooling corpse of Doc. The bump on the head... not lethal. Edward pressed his nose close to his old friend's chest and followed the smell of old blood. The cause was internal.

His heart.

And Edward had heard the irregular pace of Doc's heart for some months... but he had thought nothing of it?

Edward turned back to stare at the now peaceful face of Mick.

Then back to Doc.

He stood and walked to the wash basin in the corner of the room. He grabbed one of the sterile white cloths and turned back to clean the crusted red from temples and arms and once warm corpses.

As he rinsed the red into the porcelain basin, he looked at himself in the mirror again.

His eyes glistened like rubies.

Edward left before Mick grew too cold.

\+ l + l +

March 13, 2005

\+ l + l +

They raced through the thickets of the temperate rain forest. As the terrain climbed in altitude, the trees changed from cedar, hemlock, and madrona to Sitka spruce and Douglas fir. With all the rain, the trees were so tightly packed that only stubby knobs ribbed the trunks in the shadowed lower levels of the forest, though in the heights above, branches bushed out in a thick canopy of evergreen. Old snow covered the ground in irregular patches, and the air was its usual almost-fog.

When they emerged in the field, Emmett let a loud bellow, throwing his arms up in the air and somersaulting while his "Let play ball!" scared up flocks of birds from all sides of the valley. Edward shot ahead, dropping base markers on the spot for first and second base. Jasper was already setting up the bases for home and third.

They began their game when the first crack of thunder shook the sky. Emmett naturally insisted on being up at bat first. No one objected. They had all realized long ago that it wasn't worth it to argue otherwise with Emmett.

Alice insisted on pitching—a glint in her eye.

As Alice's fingers released the ball, Edward saw the scenes play out—even before Emmett's stance adjusted for the arc.

Edward was already running when bat connected with ball, his feet disappearing beneath him. The canvas ball soared over the treetops. Edward was half way up the Olympic peak when he caught the baseball. He came back, holding the ball aloft, and grinning while Emmett cursed him silly.

Rosalie was next. She played slyly, sending the ball just down the edge of the side line and managing to hold onto first.

While Alice was winding up for Carlisle, Rosalie tried to steal second. It was a stupid move because Edward and Alice saw her intention the second she decided on pursuing it. Edward tagged her out when she was half way between the bases.

Rosalie, naturally, began decrying her out as the result of "cheating," and Esme had to step forward to referee.

Rosalie had only just stopped seething, when Alice gasped. In her thoughts, Edward saw three vampires—two males, one female—approaching from the East.

"How long?" Edward asked, closing the distance between him and Alice.

"How long what?" Jasper was at their side—and then the rest of the family was, too.

"The visitors..." Alice eyed Jasper meaningfully.

"You knew they were coming?" Edward demanded, seeing Jasper's foreknowledge in his mind.

"I saw something earlier—" Alice started to say.

"But what if I'd brought Bella?" he snarled.

"She's with Angela," Alice replied.

"And what if she hadn't been?!"

But then Jasper stepped up to Edward. His voice was low. "Edward, you ain't brought Bella, so now you got two options. You can either absquatulate your ass on out of here and go snuggle your little lady—or stick around and chill the _fuck_ out, but one thing you ain't gonna do is continue to bitch at Alice."

"Screw off—"

But Edward didn't get to finish because Carlisle intervened. "Enough," he pronounced, and Edward and Jasper quieted. "We will continue to play our game. Three vampires is nothing for this family to fear."

They took up their positions. Carlisle returned to the home plate and picked up the bat. He gave a few practice swings before mouthing to Alice, "throw it easy."

Alice gave a light, under-handed toss.

Carlisle smacked the bat and the ball flew in a straight line toward Edward. He made an easy lunge into the air, caught the ball, and landed with a soft thud.

Then they heard the soft rustling of the approaching trio.

Edward threw the ball back to Alice as he yelled, "out" in an act of complete theater.

Emmett then turned to the rest of them. "Oh my, methinks those be the sounds of approaching visitors." He put his hand over his lips in fake surprise.

Rosalie hit him as she ran to gather with the rest of them in the center of the field.

Then they waited.

Edward heard the thoughts in broken clips at first.

.. _.line up—Laurent in the front_...

... _does he really think they'll let us play?_

_...if this is another fight..._

_...at least four scents and another._

The force of the smells coming from the distant thoughts caused Edward's nostrils to flare. _A tracker_. He was almost sure a tracker was among them.

Edward's thoughts were distracted by a sudden gasp from Alice.

The visions in her head confused him. She was talking to one of the male vampires among the newcomers. Just talking, and yet Alice was currently hopping up and down with uncontrolled excitement, and Jasper was asking her why—but she seemed beyond words.

And then the three vampires broke from the trees, slowing as they took in the Cullen clan standing before them.

Edward noticed the defensive v-alignment as they approached. The weakest, the other male, was playing the leader, but it was the larger, though slightly shorter male, James, that was the leader. The tracker.

When they were up close, Carlisle extended his hand in greeting. "Welcome, I'm Carlisle—this is my family." He pointed to each of the Cullens and named them one by one.

The olive-toned vampire reached out to take Carlisle's hand, having only just said his own name—Laurent—when Alice's restraint gave out. She skipped up to the other male, positively trembling with excitement and declared, "You're James! I'm Alice—and you—" she paused and took a great breath. "You knew me before—before I was changed!"

The male vampire's face froze for only a moment, and Edward caught a fast wave of memories as he examined Alice's face—the flash of a stone building, sterile beige walls, and the whiff of a smell so sweet... The force of it made Edward lose his concentration for a minute. He had to blink. The smell was like Bella's—but different—and yet still familiar.

And then Edward realized James was talking to Alice. "From the hospital... I _do_ know you. You look better as a vampire. But then again, not so weak and pale," _or like I could drink you…_ He smiled sideways at her as he eyed her up and down, taking in her expensive and stylish dress.

Alice hung onto his every word, his every movement. "I was in a hospital?"

"She was sick?" Esme asked, eager to help Alice.

"An asylum," James answered.

"Really?!" Alice exclaimed. The others looked on in disbelief. Alice continued, "And I was a patient? Do you know why I was there?" It was clear what this meant to her. Alice had always _seemed_ happy to focus on the future, but she had always put extra effort into it—enough to raise Jasper's worry, and though she managed without knowledge of her human identity, it had always been an aching hole.

Jasper was eying James with a deep suspicion. He didn't think James' words matched his sentiments.

"Ugly, white gown and everything. Like I said, you look better now," _but you still have the short hair from the shaved head, "_ and your eyes..." James murmured in confusion, glancing from one Cullen to the next in confusion. "Why are they yellow?"

"We're animal-drinkers. We don't hunt humans," Carlisle explained.

"You don't what?" James asked, he looked both amused and disbelieving, as if they were playing a trick on him, but then, _how else could they have those eyes?_

"We don't drink people—I know that's odd, but we can live more normal this way," Alice explained, although there was a tremor in her voice. She was already worried about scaring him off. There was so much more she wanted to ask him.

 _Normal..._ James's thought were swimming with mockery over Alice's explanation, and yet his face was completely placid—friendly, even.

"You certainly dress well," the other male—Laurent—spoke up. He was eying the Cullen's dress with interest and a touch of longing. Of the three vampires, he was undeniably the best kept, though he as well as the other two were barefoot and wind-blown. The fox-haired female—Victoria had leaves in her hair, and it would seem that James eschewed clothing as some barbaric human practice. He was wearing only a ragged jacket and cut off jeans. His chest was bare.

Emmett was the one that finally ended Alice's interrogation of James. "But you guys want to play ball right? We only have one more hour of thunder—and then who knows how long 'til the next storm?"

"I haven't played ball in over sixty years," James answered. "Laurent?" he asked the other male.

"Not for at least a century," Laurent echoed in a polite voice.

"Well, that's fixed then. We'll can the chitchat and get to the game," Jasper decided, which earned him a reproachful look from Alice. Baseball had clearly lost all interest to her. She wanted to question James until the sun came up.

And so Victoria and James joined Emmett's team, while Laurent and Esme evened out the players on Alice's. The addition of the trio added a new element to the game. James reveled in the thrill of the sport with an enthusiasm only matched by Emmett.

When they finally started playing, James was up to bat, and Alice wound up and then threw—and the throw was one that both Edward and everyone else recognized as a giveaway. Jasper was the least pleased as James made it to third before Esme smilingly blocked him with the ball in her hand.

Emmett struck out.

And then Victoria was up to bat. It was only as she brushed her bare toes, shaping out an "x" across the home plate, that Edward realized how little attention he had paid to her. She looked directly past Alice, ignoring her as if she didn't exist, and smiled at James. "I'll get you home, baby," she cooed in a horribly squeaky voice. "It shouldn't be that hard, either," and then she gave what was undeniably a derisive glare in Alice's direction.

James responded to Victoria with an easy grin, pretending like she had been nothing but sweet to Alice. As if to illustrate his nonchalance, he stretched his arms lazily into the air before running his fingers down and through his coarse, buff-colored hair. "Do your magic, my little mouse," he half-yelled across the diamond.

And then Alice wound up once again, and pitched at the last second. The ball shot forward and flew—rather _close_ to Victoria—though Victoria evaded it with a move that would be considered graceful, even for a vampire.

Jasper called, "ball," as he caught it and was unable to hide both his surprise and subtle disappointment at Alice. He threw the ball back to Alice—who, if she hadn't been completely conscious of it before—was now determined in her complete dislike of Victoria.

Edward realized that no matter how long he listened to human thought, he would never personally understand the cattiness of women.

Alice made to pitch again.

Edward half-groaned before Alice's fingers had even released the ball.

It went wide again—and while, yes, Victoria was smaller than any of the Cullens except for Alice herself—Alice would never normally have gotten even a inch off the mark, but her frustration and the "fuck-you-bitch!" glare Victoria was giving her were throwing Alice off her game.

And then Edward saw the series of images play out in Alice's head. Another ball. Another ball. Another ball... There didn't seem to be any alternative outcome. "Just walk!" Alice declared, angrily smashing the baseball down into the dirt with a high-keeled thud.

Victoria look both confused and slightly smug, but Jasper, still crouched in his catcher's position, urged, "it'd be best to start walkin', really," so she took off and lightly ran to first base.

Carlisle took the base then, giving Alice a warm but subtly challenging smile as he gave the bat a few swings and bent into a batting stance.

Alice grinned back at him, already having seen a much more competent series of pitches in the future. She managed to strike him out on the first pitch, and on the second throw—Victoria made her move.

Alice saw it and threw the ball to Esme—who was unprepared and dropped the ball—but then Edward was across the field, and he had the ball in hand and was tracking Victoria's moves—and yet, following her thoughts was not an easy task. She didn't really seem to think about where she was moving—but just seemed to snap to the next preternatural motion like a rubber band—evading each tag of the ball with a snap and fling. With a back flip and a slide, Victoria made it to second base with a happy laugh.

It was a _talent_.

"Nice little skill you got there," Edward commented and then he threw the ball at Alice.

The smile disappeared off her face, and she gave a wary glance at James.

"That's right—Victoria is a springy thing—a hard to catch little mouse," James said in a voice that seemed designed to soothe, and then he looked up at Edward. "And what's your skill? You kept up with her pretty well."

"I'm fast," Edward replied.

"You're fast," James repeated with a touch of a smirk. _And hiding something._

Jasper sensed the growing tension in the field, and called, "Rosalie's turn!" so that they would resume.

Edward made Laurent switch with him, so that he was covering third. If Victoria tried to steal again, he would be ready.

Unfortunately, being at third also put him near James, whose thoughts were focused on him with an intense scrutiny. _Some sort of mental power, I bet. Bastard sees too much... And he smells..._ He took in the smells emanating from Edward. _One strong human smell—floral and light. Several weak ones. Some awful food smell—maple syrup and pancakes or something. Like rolling in a trough. And yet those eyes..._ James' curiosity reaching its peak, he asked Edward, "Why do you and Carlisle smell like humans—more than the others, that is?"

"We have jobs."

"Jobs?"

"We're doctors."

"Doctors? For humans?"

"Carlisle is a surgeon. I do some counseling."

"A surgeon?!" _But how could he? And the blood?_

"That's what I said."

"And you don't do it for the afternoon snack do you?" James hummed with total sarcasm. He wasn't even trying to hide his disgust any more.

"No, we help humanity."

"I do that too, but my way involves population control," James quipped.

Victoria and Alice both laughed at the comment, before silencing suddenly and exchanging a quick glare.

Edward shrugged and turned back to the game.

At his side, James was lost in his musings. _Of all the things in the world... saintly vampires._ James glared at Edward's back. _We won't stay_ _long—have to visit with little Alice of course. That Jasper needs to have his dick handed to him and keeping Victoria on her toes is always a_ _good time..._ James paused then. _But_ _after_ _we_ _go, a snack on the way out, I think._

Edward made no sound. No move.

But every inch of him wanted to turn around and rip at James's throat.

He would _try_ to avoid that though.

Try.

\+ l + l +

The minute the game ended, Edward made his excuses and left.

Alice stopped her interrogation of James—who was ignoring her to argue with Emmett about the game—to give Edward a quick nod. _Yes, it would be okay if you called her now, Edward. Not that you have anything to fret about_ , she mentally chided him.

Edward didn't know what to do about her new infatuation—he supposed it was natural enough. In a family so completely focused on humanity, it was difficult to have nothing human of your own—no memory, no past, not even birth date. And now Alice had happened upon James, and he held the secrets to her past.

Jasper gave Edward a mental call before he left. _Edward, don't stay away too long, and don't go anywhere near your patients, you might wanna call in sick tomorrow._ His eyes flicked toward James. _This snake is the most stone cold Jayhawker I ever seen— and yet his tone is honey sweet. And Alice—she's only seeing as far ahead as she wants to—and I can't make myself stop her, though..._ he scowled in the direction of James and Victoria.

Edward gave a quick nod and then departed, knowing the eyes and thoughts of more than a few in the group were intent upon him.

He ran south—away from Forks but in the direction of increasing signal bars on his cell phone. He paused when he reached the end of the valley to scan the surrounding countryside for any minds.

The space was blank and quiet, so Edward dialed Bella.

Her voice when she picked up was slightly exerted. "Hello?" she asked.

"It's me."

"E—Edward? I mean, hi! How are you? I missed you. Why aren't you here?"

"I'm fine, but Bella… I have bad news. I can't come tonight."

A pause. "Why not?" She sounded really disappointed.

"There are vampires visiting us."

There was a short silence. "For you to not come… I assume they are not vegetarians."

"You're right. They are anything but."

"But even, still, can't you come here and then just take a bath or something before going home?"

Edward chuckled darkly into the phone. "I wish, but one of them is a tracker—and already dislikes me—I don't want to give him any targets or trails to follow. We just need to lay low, and they'll be gone sooner or later, and then I'll spend every last second with you."

"Hmm… I might accept that. Now, how long is sooner or later?"

"I don't know, but regardless, I won't risk you. He already caught your scent on me—if he catches it again, he'll know that you aren't just one of my patients."

"If he's so creepy, why not just ask him to leave?"

"Believe me, I want to boot him out the door, but as an odd turn of fate, he knows about Alice's past. She would kill me."

"Oh." She paused in thought, "Well, I'm sure Alice is excited about that. She told me she had no human memories."

"I think 'excited' might be an understatement—she's borderline obsessed—but anyway, I don't really want to talk about Alice. How was your day with Angela?"

"Oh, it was good—although..."

"Yes?"

"Apparently, Ben had an argument with his dad, and he forbid him from dating until his grades went back up—which is horrible, because Ben is close to being valedictorian."

"Ben needs to stand up to his father on his own terms."

"How can he, though?"

"Ben and I talk about that in his appointments—which I'd rather not discuss—but I am sorry for Angela."

"Yeah..." Bella trailed, off and then she rallied. "It's unpleasant to be away from the person you love."

Edward smiled, even as he caught the subtle jab in Bella's tone. "I miss you, too—already—and I do have to go now."

Bella groaned in disappointed, and then she whispered, "Call me soon, okay?"

"Of course. Sleep well, my love."

"Yes, well, you know that I would sleep better if—"

"Good night, Bella," Edward said with a chuckle.

"Night, Edward."

And then Edward began calling select patients of his, informing them one at a time about cancellation for the morrow. He considered cancelling all of his appointments, but then he decided that would draw more attention than avoid it. So, he cancelled the appointments with the "sweet-smelling" patients, mostly the ones in the afternoon. His morning patients tended to be older, so he let those appointments alone, in addition to one or two in the early afternoon.

He was eager to return home. Jasper would want him there.

He arrived to a conversation in full swing. Alice was asking about her maker, William.

There was a flash—a memory of a vampire flight and flames and only partial victory. James smiled lightly, "Like I said, we weren't friends, little Alice—that's it."

"What did he look like?"

"Tall, blond, pale, and red-eyed—a vampire."

"Red-eyed?"

"What? That surprises you?" James asked once again amused by Cullens' "alternative lifestyle."

"Well, it's that I don't understand why he didn't keep me or 'show me the ropes' or whatever," Alice explained.

"William was weird," James muttered, clearly bored with the conversation. It would seem that Alice had asked the same question in ten different ways already. "He was posing as a human medic—helping out the crazies at the asylum. Not unlike Edward here..."

Edward ignored the comment, and then Victoria cut in, "It's too bad _your_ maker left you. Some of us were certainly more fortunate." She came up behind James and put either hand on his shoulder.

"James was your maker?" Alice asked with forced patience.

"I was," James answered. "Victoria was a tricky little human. We played a game for a while before I changed her—and she was very good at the game. The first time I saw her, she was sitting with a friend in a little cafe. She smelled delicious—and I watched her, but then the funniest thing happened."

"I looked back at you," Victoria responded.

"She did and smiled like a little slut, too."

Victoria shrugged. "What can I say? You were good-looking."

"Well, she had my attention—I decided to hunt her—but I kept running into… one trouble after the next. I didn't want to make it easy on myself—so I forbid myself from allowing any witnesses—or any _collateral_ , I should say." James gave a short laugh. "But whenever I thought I had her, she would... escape. She went to the bathroom at a shopping mall—I was waiting inside—but then she remembered she'd forgotten something in the car. I wanted to catch her when she walked home from school—but then she joined cheerleading and always walked home with friends. One event after the next, and finally, I was sitting on a bench outside her school, completely pissed off at what was like the most shit luck ever, when my little mouse found _me_."

"Like I said, you were good looking," _and with that wicked look in your eyes..._

"The little game we played was great fun, and not wanting it to end—I kept my little mouse _permanently_." —a _nd with her strange talent, she's been_ _useful._

Edward held back a gag. The whole affair nauseated him—and Jasper's heightened sense of their emotions didn't help at all. Victoria saw herself and James as a team. She was completely devoted to him. She saw James as her mate. But James saw Victoria as...

A mouse under paw.

\+ l + l +

March 14, 2005

\+ l + l +

Edward's appointments on Monday seemed to lag on forever—even with a quarter of them cancelled—and all of his patients seemed to be in a worse state than ever.

He had to put Katherine Heart down as a suicide-risk.

John Coolidge's meds had stopped working.

Walter Jones seemed to be addicted to his.

Erica Lansbury refused to talk, and Edward realized he was going to have to refer her to another psychologist—she was terrified of him, and he knew she was terrified of most males after the attack...

When his last appointment was over, Edward happily reached for his desk phone and dialed the numbers.

Bella answered, "Hello?"

"It's me, Bella."

"I'm suffering from withdrawal. I miss you. Are they _still_ there?"

"They are. I'm hoping that Alice will annoy the leader so much that he leaves."

"You still don't trust them?"

"No. I trust them even less than before, if the truth be told."

"So, you won't be coming over?"

"I can't, Bella," Edward sighed dejectedly.

"Well, at least I'll see you tomorrow."

"No, you won't," Edward objected.

"I have an appointment."

"—which is officially _cancelled_."

And then Edward heard the sounds of a door opening in the background and Charlie's distant voice greeting Bella. "Edward, I..."

"I know. I'll talk to you later."

The line clicked.

\+ l + l +

Edward arrived home to find his household in a more or less quieted state. James was playing chess with Jasper, which was going surprising peacefully, but that may have been because James had won the most recent game—or because Alice refused to help Jasper in any way shape or form. Alice, Victoria, and Esme were seated on the couch. Victoria wore a new hiker's shirt from Newton's, and Esme stitched up her old shirt, while Alice showed Victoria some magazines. Victoria was fingering a page with a long white dress in the center, but when Alice appeared to notice, Victoria turned the page quickly. _Pretty, but not worth it,_ Victoria thought. _As James says, we're vampires—we last forever, and we don't need stupid symbols like humans have to prove as much—and I look bad in white. My hair's too red._

Edward ran upstairs to change out of his work clothes, and then he was pulling open the back door.

Laurent's voice stopped him. "May I join you?"

Edward shrugged. "I don't see why not?"

James voice interrupted. "He's going to hunt. Are you planning on drinking from a bunny rabbit too, Laurent?"

Laurent turned and explained, "I simply wanted to get out for a bit. Do you mind?"

"Go then," James muttered, before picking up his bishop and sliding it across the chessboard.

Without further comment, Laurent followed Edward out the door. When they were away from the house, Laurent commented, "Your family has a nice life."

Edward nodded. "We're happy. And why are you in James's coven?"

Laurent gave a short laugh. "Ah, the psychologist, not one to beat around the bush of course."

Edward raised a brow.

And then Laurent tried to answer him, but—his own memories strangled him. Edward barely hid the cringe at the memory Edward saw flooding Laurent's thoughts: _Laurent with his former coven member—Ravel, who had challenged James. James had caught Ravel off guard and ripped his head from his neck—and then James had_ _bested_ _Laurent—only... Victoria had stopped James from killing him. "Don't be so rash, love—he'll be good. He wants to join a strong coven like ours. Don't you?" Laurent nodding yes. Time passes. Laurent starts feeling okay about things, and then Victoria is sent out to scout. She doesn't look happy about it..._

_James pushes Laurent up against the wall—the wall crumbles as their force pushes through it. Laurent_ _tries_ _to_ _stop James. He pushes James's hands away even as_ _James's_ _nails_ _rip_ _at the fabric of Laurent's trousers, and then James pushes his knee between his thighs, forcing them open as his teeth cut slightly along Laurent's neck._

_"Don't—you'll—" Laurent whines through the dirt in his mouth._

_"I'll what, hurt you?" James laughs madly. He likes the fear._

_Laurent gives an agonized noise of assent._

_James laughs harder. Then he says, "You can't hurt a vampire that way. Not unless you use teeth," and then James_ _snarls in his ear, "You will obey me."_

_Laurent screams, but it does nothing._

Before Edward, Laurent was squeezing his eyes shut like he was trying to stomp the memory out with sheer will power, but then he finally decided on an explanation. "James is..." he trailed." James is highly lethal. I've never met a vampire like him before, and..." he glanced up at Edward with meaningful eyes. "You, especially, would do well not to continue to piss him off. He already dislikes you."

"The feeling is mutual."

Laurent laughed again, and some of the tension between them evaporated. "I would leave, but..."

"But what?"

"But I'd need to leave on good terms. James is a tracker—he'd see it as good sport to go and hunt me down."

"But what if you were in another coven?"

Laurent shook his head. "I can't stay here. He'd take it too personally—he'd do... anything to get revenge."

"There is another family like us in Alaska. There are Tanya, Irina, and Kate, the sisters, and then Carmen and Eleazar. They live like we do, in a large house in remote Denali and hunt animals."

"Three single females, really?" Laurent smiled at him. "Your way of life doesn't sound so bad..."

Edward rolled his eyes, and then he gestured at the forest. They both could hear the eastward moving sound of padding of paws. "How about giving it a try?"

\+ l + l +

March 15, 2005

\+ l + l +

Edward heard John before he even made it past the lobby.

First things first, John high-fived the receptionist. Then he skipped, a full lunge with each kick off, and sang a convivial and high-pitched hum that made every patient in the surrounding rooms wonder what child had loosed himself from his mother.

John flung open the door with a loud, "HE DUMPED THE MOTHERFUCKING SCALLYWAG ON HIS BUM!!!!! And now we're going skiing—and even if it's not just me and him—but a whole group—WE'RE GOING SKIING!!! And he gave me a kiss goodnight before he left! And he said I seemed much more thoughtful than last time we dated! So thank you to the Gods good, hot-as-fuck Dr. Cullen—you got me my boyfriend back!" And then he gave an ear-splitting "WHOOPEE!" and plopped down with apparent glee on the chaise, sending two pillows tumbling off the side.

"Well," Edward said through barely restrained laughter, "it seems like we have some things to talk about."

"Yes," John agreed, sitting up and looking thoughtful. "What should I pack?" And then he laughed at his own joke.

_Well, at least he_ _**realized** _ _he was being ridiculous..._

"For starters, have you told your job about this trip?" Edward asked.

John's face and mind both suddenly blanked. "Eh... not yet?"

\+ l + l +

Bella didn't bother knocking but instead, ran into his office as if trying to catch him before he ran away.

"Bella, you weren't supposed to—"

"Hush," she commanded and rounding his desk, she shoved herself between his legs, clutched both sides of his face with both hands, and pressed her lips to his. And then she threw a leg over his and there was the realization that she was wearing a skirt—and tights too—but the tights weren't that thick and if he kept moving his hands up...

He pulled away with a sharp breath and held Bella at arm's length for a minute.

"Sorry—I just—I—" Bella sputtered.

"I missed you too." He smiled back at her.

And she let out a breath of air, smiling at him like she was relieved to hear his words.

"You need to stop being so impetuous," he fake-scolded as he ran thumb of her warm cheek. "It's dangerous for you right now."

"I'm not being impetuous. I thought about this. I didn't just rush over here."

"And what exactly was the thought process that justified your complete and total disregard for your own safety?"

Bella blushed. "I wanted to talk with you about something," she explained and then she stood and pulled on his hand, waiting until he stood and then leading him to the chaise, where she pushed him down, before curling into his lap.

"What is it you wanted to talk about?" Edward asked, picking up a tendril of her dark hair and curling it around his finger.

"Okay..." Bella took a long breath.

"You're nervous?" Edward asked with a chuckle.

She rolled her eyes at him. "You won't like it, but you have to promise to listen."

Then it was Edward's turn to roll his eyes. "I always listen."

She gave him a flat look, before sighing. Then she grabbed his free hand and stroked it gently, the warmth of her flesh sending soothing echoes through his own. "Edward, I want you to change me."

He replied without thinking. "No."

"Edward…" Bella groaned in frustration.

"No." He shook his head. "You're perfect as you are."

"Thank you, I love you too, but I'm not a _statue_. I'm not going to always be seventeen. I'm not always going to be in high school. I'm not always going to live in this small town—"

Edward spoke, "I know, Bella—and those are _good_ things."

But she talked right over him, "And if I _stay_ human, I'm not always going to be w-with you. Eventually, I'll—I'll die. I'll either fall into a manhole that no one bothered to cover or worse yet, I'll get old and ugly, and you won't… want me anymore."

"Bella…" Edward sighed and shook his head at her. "I will always want you. I will always love you, and as for the distant future, that's not for… you don't have to think about that now, and when that time comes, where you go, I go. I'll die with you."

Bella's jaw dropped, and then her face contorted, and she declared, "No, you won't! You're going to live—I'm just trying to tell you that I want you to choose me. I want to be with you as your equal—not some little human."

"You have never been 'some little human,' Bella."

She ignored the sweetness of his tone and turned to point to the statue of Eros and Psyche on the table. "It's like that isn't it?"

"We're both statues now?"

"Do not play dumb. You know what I meant. We're like them, you know? You seem to have chosen me from all the mortals, and yet you don't want to give yourself completely to me. You don't trust me. Part of you wants me to believe that I'll wake up in the middle of the night and hold the candle to your face and discover I've been lying in the arms of a monster."

Edward blinked a few times before answering. _Yes, he expected her to run away. The smart thing would be for her to run away,_ so he spoke slowly and seriously, "I am a soulless vampire, Bella."

But he gained no acknowledgment from her—she gave a short shake of the head, and her jaw remained set and determined, so he repeated himself, "I am a soulless vampire. If you took a poll of a public audience on me, I'm pretty sure the "monster" label would get the _ding-ding-ding_."

"Not a monster, Edward—no, if you _were_ a monster, that would be easy. Then I could love you in spite of yourself and you'd have to accept it. Instead..." she glowered at him with her eyes, "you are a cantankerous centenarian in the body of a seventeen year old God—and to be honest, I think you need to bite me and get over it."

Edward turned away from her. "Mockery, naturally, is the path to all persuasion," Edward sighed wearily, gripping the side of the chaise and causing the wood to creak slightly in his frustration.

But Bella persisted with hastened words, "That was Eros's problem, though—he was the God of love, and yet he couldn't believe that Psyche would love him for his soul if she saw that he was a god—and yet it was his own fears that ruined their marriage. He should have trusted her, but noooo, he put her on this crazy pedestal, which she couldn't help but fall from, especially with her evil sisters and the whole problem of having Venus as an irritable mother-in-law—so when Eros ran off to have his emo-trip, and—"

"—Bella, _stop_ it." He pulled at the bangs hanging down over his brow.

"It would protect me from James—you wouldn't have to worry about me anymore."

"You'd be in so much pain, I'd worry _more_."

"And we could do _things_ ," she said excitably, even as she blushed. "You wouldn't have to worry about hurting me."

 _He could be inside her—he could—_ Edward gave a strangled groan, wanting to hit himself for his own weakness. And yet, Bella was here, pushing him, and he needed to be in control, so he pulled Bella against him, pressing his lips into her hair. "Bella, _no_ and _no_ and _no._ Think about your friends—think about Angela. Think about Charlie and Renee."

"You know, a few months ago, that would have bothered me more, but Renee is happy, and Charlie, for the first time in a long time, is happy and head-over-heels for Maggie."

"They would be devastated, Bella," Edward whispered. "You could never see them again, and as your therapist—"

"No—you are not my _therapist_ right now. You are my lover, boy friend, whatever—but you are not my doctor in this conversation."

Edward nodded, "You're right. It's just—you shouldn't—I love you too much—you should never give up your humanity, your essence, your soul. It's a _bad_ idea."

"First off, I think we're in competing schools of thought there. I happen to be in the 'Edward has a soul' camp. Second, I technically met the goals of my therapy a while ago. I don't feel depressed, detached, or maladjusted. I've made friends, formed a relationship with my father, and also," she paused, "and I fell in love with _you_ , so really, I'm ridiculously happy."

"That's..." Edward trailed off, gazing at Bella's flustered eyes and full-faced blush. "I love you," he mumbled, for once finding himself questioning his own logic, but then he shook his head slightly, and repeated his words from before, "What you are is too precious to change."

"Errrrrgh!!!" Bella sat up and squeezed her hand over her brow. She seemed lost in anguished thought for a few moments, but then a lightness softened her furrowed brow. "Well, fine then."

"Fine?" _Had she given in...?_

Bella leaned back down and cuddled into crook of his shoulder. "In the story, it wasn't Eros that changed Psyche..."

"Bella," Edward growled in warning.

"She got Zeus to do it."

Edward smacked his head back against the chaise in frustration.

"Time's up," Bella muttered, and she pulled away to stand.

"Time is _not_ up," Edward protested in total shock, wrenching himself upright on the chaise.

"But I have to go find Carlisle," she said with sham determination, turning toward the door.

Edward grabbed her hand and yanked her back toward the chaise, throwing her down onto the cushions and trapping her there. She giggled beneath him. "Time is not up, and you are not going anywhere," he muttered through the kisses he was placing along her neck.

For the first time that day, Bella did not object.

\+ l + l +

When Edward returned home, the ease of the previous evening was gone.

Jasper and James were engaged in a heated discussion.

"You're no bleeding heart, not with that number of scars. Why stop yourself?" Edward heard James ask Jasper as he walked over the front threshold.

Jasper gave Alice a long look, before answering James. _While I question myself on days like this..._ "I go where Alice goes. She's my mate. It's that simple."

"And little Alice is a surprisingly powerful creature, so I can see why you would—"

"It ain't about her "power." It's about _her_. She's my wife, and I love her—not that _you'd_ know a lick about that," _being devoid of anything called emotion yourself..._

Alice, from what Edward could tell, had revealed her ability to see the future to James at some point over the course of the day. While Edward wasn't surprised, he also didn't like the turn of events. James had gone from being tolerant and mostly dismissive of Alice to feeling... _covetous_ —which Jasper was responding to—and to which James was wasting no time in upping the ante.

"Jasper, he's just curious—after all, you—" Alice tried to add in.

But Jasper cut her off with a glare that warned her against saying more. Alice quieted, knowing that Jasper was already upset about her revealing her own talent.

Alice, deciding that Jasper was being overprotective, and slightly pleased by James's attention, decided to turn the conversation back to her favorite topic. "Do you think William knew about my talent? Do you think that's why he changed me?"

Edward, already heading up the steps, stopped in his tracks when he heard James's next thought: _He changed you so you could get away—and I snapped him in two because of it._

Edward was in the living room in the next moment.

But James was already answering Alice, "Actually, I figured he was a pedophile, but you could be right. Could be he saw your brilliance."

Alice's nose crinkled in disgust. "Well maybe it's a good thing, I don't remember anything…"

But then Edward spoke, "That's not what happened. You killed William because you were hunting Alice."

The room grew quiet.

 _What the fuck is his power? He's worse than Tex—and yet…_ James gave Alice a sidelong glance. "I admit to being intrigued by Alice, but I didn't kill her, after all. You see, Alice, you smelled better than any human I had ever smelled—before or after—and I reacted like a vampire the first time I met you. I am sorry." James's face was the picture of perfect apology.

His thoughts, however…

"Oh, for the love of—" Edward threw his arms up in the air.

Jasper grabbed Alice's hand and declared, "He's lying, Alice!" There was the image replaying through his head: Maria snapping the girl's neck in Monterrey, except now the girl was Alice, and Maria was James.

But Alice was determined to believe James. "Oh come off it, Edward, so what if I was his singer? Think about how you reacted to Bella—you'd have drunk her dry and never gotten to know her if I hadn't forewarned you!"

And then there was a shout of "Alice!" but not just from Jasper and Edward but Rosalie and Esme and Carlisle too.

And the thoughts in James's head. He was enjoying every second of this. "Edward has a singer too, does he? Must be that sweet, flowery smell. I think I still detect a whiff of it—" _Only it's more than a trace. He's bathed in it._

Edward lunged.

It was Rosalie and Emmett that stopped him.

Victoria was already at James's side.

Carlisle spoke then, "I'm sorry things had to reach this point, but I have to ask you to leave."

James shrugged, a smile still on his face, and then he started for the door. He paused when he noticed that Laurent was standing still. "Laurent. Come," he commanded.

With a sigh, Laurent started to walk.

"You don't have to go with him," Edward reminded him. "You can stay here if you want."

"No, he's coming with us. Now," James commanded again.

Laurent shook his head at Edward, _I can't... I'm not strong enough,_ and like a cowed dog, he followed James and Victoria out the front door.

And then Alice began yelling, "Edward—Jasper how could you? He was my link to my past! He was the only one that could tell me!"

Jasper immediately tried to soothe her, "There are newspapers, genealogical records, and any number of histories you can reference."

But Edward had no desire to soothe his sister, "Do it, Alice. Look into the future! Look and tell me that they're not stopping to 'snack' in Forks on their way out—people you know, Alice!"

And Alice—smug as anything—looked. While the rest of the family seemed to all be talking over each other, Edward caught the series of flashes, as if Alice happened upon a trail of decision that suddenly changed again, and everything was shaded, and there were flashes of colder weather and going north, so Alice started to say, "See, Edward! I knew that—"

But then she cut off.

Because there was the image of James and Victoria in her head—just off the 110. _"You take that trail, Laurent, and don't fuck this up. Victoria will take that one and I'll take the one that runs parallel." And then the three vampires set off..._

"No, he wouldn't," Alice murmured, and her face was already rueful.

"We told you, Alice..." Jasper groaned.

"But why?" she cried.

"He's a fucking sociopath!" Edward spat, but then he begged, "Where's he going, Alice? What's the trail? We'll have to split up."

Alice concentrated, and there was the image of Victoria heading up north along the highway. "I think Victoria is going to Port Angeles." Another image of Laurent stalking a house off the main strip...

"That's Ben's house," Edward gasped in anger.

"Your patients," Carlisle murmured. "He's going after your _patients_."

"James—where is James, Alice?" Edward asked in desperation.

_A passage through the woods, a gravel drive way, and then... a red truck._

"No!" Edward screamed, and then he bolted.

He was out the door and in the woods before Alice could even whisper, " _I'm so sorry._ "

\+ l + l +

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _The Human Mind_ by Dr. Karl Menninger. The book educated the public about psychiatry. Published in 1930, The Human Mind immediately became a Literary Guild selection and sold 200,000 copies. It was one of the first books in which a psychiatrist explained the everyday workings that went on in his office at the Menninger clinic, and showed the world as it is seen through the eyes of a psychiatrist. Some also say that it translated Sigmund Freud, the world's first psychoanalyst, into American literature. "Freud's great courage," Dr. Karl would say years later, "led him to look honestly at the evil in man's nature. But he persisted in his researches to the bottom of the chest and he discerned that potentially love is stronger than hate, that for all its core of malignancy, the nature of men can be transformed with the nurture and dispersion of love. "This was the hope that Freud's discoveries gave us. This was the spirit of the new psychiatry. It enabled us to replace therapeutic nihilism with constructive effort, to replace unsound expectations, first with hope, and then with sound expectations.''
> 
> 2\. Mick doesn't have a defined mental disease. We can even assume that were he a vampire, he could literally use his voice as a super power or something, and while his symptoms parallel schizophrenia and certain other disorders—I chose not to mimic them directly, since I read journals by patients, and decided there was no way I could come close to describing it with any modicum of reality—especially not in 1930.
> 
> 3\. absqualate - to take leave, to disappear (Civil War slang)
> 
> 4\. We're back to the Eros / Psyche references from Chapter 2. See that note (because I'm lazy)


	10. If Trees Could Walk. If Stones Could Fly.

\+ l + l +

December 25, 1930

\+ l + l +

On Christmas, Edward ran north to Canada.

He had been running for sometime when he finally looked about and discovered that he'd crossed the US-Canada border and then some.

A few days before, he'd been on the frozen plains of Sioux City, Iowa. He'd intended to hunker down and stay for the holidays, but the stupid smiles, the scent of pine and the jingle of silver sleigh bells—it had all caused him to run away.

After he stopped, Edward hunted immediately and automatically, scouting the frozen Manitoban tundra. Game was quiet and full here. He could have gone after a lone wolf, but instead Edward opted for a gamy, underfed reindeer.

Edward didn't look down when he finally pushed away the drained deer. He wouldn't even bother to hide the body out here. _Humans didn't come out here—only vampires and beasts with horns and hooves._ Edward sighed, but then he blinked in surprise, because his own exhale froze before his face, the reindeer's blood having warmed his mouth. In the cloud of breath, Edward was sure he could see the pink in the airborne crystals.

And then Edward finally looked down on the corpse of Rudolph's cousin.

He told himself it was his revenge on Christmas—on everything—on himself.

And then Edward set off for the North Pole.

\+ l + l +

January 1, 1931

\+ l + l +

In the pre-morning hours of the new year, Edward ran southward again, stopping when the first flares of the distant sun rotated into view, and he could see the luminescence of the continent's curved horizon. It was then that Edward realized where he was, the barren badlands of the Dakotas.

Knowing something of what awaited him, Edward sat on a high rock and watched the dawn of 1931: the landscape of coral, faded sepias, and dark honeys washing over the petrified timber.

 _A forest worthy of a vampire_ , he mused without irony.

When night descended, he finally skulked away. And the air around him seemed to quiet when he left. Silence fell upon silence as if the layers of the earth recognized the trespasser: a too-fast shape among the stationary nightmare. The boogie man in the fairytale forest. A desperate and solitary predator.

Shaking his head at his own ruminations, Edward decided he needed to see a human face again.

He headed east.

\+ l + l +

February 3, 1931

\+ l + l +

Edward flitted around for a while, trying on cities like some women liked to try on hats, but he finally settled down in Minneapolis. Wanting something completely different from his former urban hideaway, he bought a blue corner house, one with a small rose garden in the back and a mossy stone fence. The timeless beauty of the garden made him think of Esme. Then, inside the house, there was the musty warmth of the library, where Edward liked to read in the chair before the fogged-glass window. The library made him think of Carlisle.

It was in the window-side chair that Edward sat, day after day, wondering if—after everything—Carlisle could possibly forgive him.

It always ended in the same conclusion. Carlisle would take him back, as would Esme. They would have already have forgiven him. And yet he kept returning to sit in the chair and to deliberate through the same doubt day after day.

If only he could forgive himself...

\+ l + l +

February 14, 1931

\+ l + l +

Edward was more than fond of his next door neighbors. First of all, being as old as they were, they slept most of the time, which was a blessing, but when they were awake, they were sweet in a way that reminded Edward of Carlisle and Esme. The woman, Roberta, was sick—cancer, and to cheer her up, Al would sit at the piano they had in the back room, while she would lay stretched out on the couch in the sunlight, and he would play her cheerful songs from their younger days, like _The Bird in the Gilded Cage_ or _Funiculì Funiculà_ or peppy country ditties—most of which Al learned from his shipmates while in the navy.

Edward would hear Al singing with his rough old voice, making up the words even when he didn't know them, and he would hear Roberta laugh along—even when the laughs made her chest hurt.

Edward was at his writing desk with a pen in hand that night when he heard Roberta having another attack. He had been trying to write a letter to Carlisle—a letter he would never send—but somehow Edward felt the need to write the letter, regardless. He wanted to put into ink what he was incapable of saying in person.

But the outburst next door drew his attention away.

Edward felt the pain from Roberta's attack first. She wasn't thinking in clear thoughts. She trembled and shook on the bed. The pain grew worse and worse, causing her lungs to seemingly bend under the pressure of it. It ripped across her brain as if to stop all function, drowning out her hearing and clouding over her vision.

Edward pushed himself to see her face through Al's eyes. Edward couldn't stay in Roberta's mind— _the pain_ —and yet he couldn't _not_ listen in.

When she was able, Roberta gave Al's arm a pat and pushed herself up on her pillows. "Do those dishes after dinner—Janie left a casserole in the pantry for you," Roberta spoke in a clenched, low tone.

Al didn't say anything but merely spread his large hand as wide as possible over his wife's smaller frail one. He couldn't squeeze—if he squeezed, he might hurt her. _Already hurting so much…_

"Promise me you'll do the dishes, Al," she commanded in a weak and raspy voice.

Al tried to raise his eyes to hers, to nod, to say yes, to give her whatever she wanted. _Always wanted to give her everything._ But he couldn't—saying yes would be saying yes to everything. It would be admitting what he had been denying for the last six months. _Roberta would be okay. Miracles could happen even in the worst of times. Say a prayer—but then he'd said so many… NO_ _—that was wrong._

" _Many."_

_As if there could ever be "too many." Every second of his life in prayer could still never be "too many"_

__And a single empty second of life without her would be…_ _

Al turned his face away from his wife. He didn't want her to see—but then the inevitable happened, and Al broke down sobbing.

"Oh, Al…" she sighed, staring wearily at her broken husband. "Now, we'll have none of that. You soldier on, you hear? Tim and Mark are looking forward to that new train set…" she urged. She would have smiled if she'd been able to find the energy.

And Al started sobbing more hysterically, a tinge of laughter invading his sobs, because he was remembering: _Roberta in the school house—covered in chalk dust because they'd got into a spat while beating the erasers. She had whopped him across the jaw, and he'd started to tear up even though tears were for weak sissies. She had comforted him then, too. And then there was his stamp in the navy—his ridiculous letters scratched by swaying candle light—every last one of them showing him to still be that same scared, little boy, and yet she'd written him back diligently, letters full of the familiar comedy of home and daily hassles—letters that had kept him grounded. And then their two-dollar wedding with only his sister and her dad present—he'd never been so happy—there had never been a luckier man, and that night… he'd just been so nervous—so nervous he couldn't even… but she had made things happen. "I love you" after "I love you" had soothed him on that night and through the years. Roberta had made him better—a successful business man, a halfway decent dad, "my secret spine of steel" he'd teased her._

_So, the LIE that he could wake up tomorrow morning and never hear those words again…_

"I love you," he choked out.

_Even after all these years she's beautiful._

And Edward saw that when Al looked at Roberta, he didn't see the fan of lines around her eyes, the drooping bags beneath, or the scant strands of white hair that damply clung to her scalp. Well, yes, he did see those details, but he didn't see them as Edward would. Al saw the piercing feistiness in her eyes, the wrinkles around her mouth holding back the potential of her sardonic wit, and the broad arch of her nose—which seemed somehow even larger in old age. Al loved that nose. He loved it because she'd always complained about it—"fat old schnoz" she called it—and that had made him love it even more…

"Not going to promise, are you?" Roberta sighed hoarsely, letting her eyes fall shut.

"I love you," he repeated in another choke.

"Oh, Al—I love you, too." Once again, she tried to smile at him, but the attempt ended in a wince.

She was in so much pain—for months now. She never complained, though—not Roberta. But he knew, he knew before she would admit to it, and when he'd yelled at her to go to the doctor.

" _I'm an old lady, Al. What could a doctor do other than waste our hard earned money?"_

He'd made her go.

But she'd been right.

 _"Nothing we can do,"_ the doctor had said.

And the thought made Al want to scream—he wanted shred and tear and fight and war—scream and rage at the sky—shake his fist at God. It made him want to hate something... anything.

"Please don't go," he whispered.

She didn't open her eyes.

And yet Edward knew she'd heard him.

But she couldn't speak.

Her mouth wouldn't open.

_Sorry, Al, that I'm the first to go. Sorry my love, and I love you. We'll see each other once again because our two souls are bound with yarn, tape, mortar, babies, and drool. Can't split up that sorta glue, and I'm damned sure no angel would be such a dolt, for that matter._

She wished she was strong enough to kiss him goodbye.

And then Edward wondered if Al was telepathic, because in the next instant Al pressed his thin lips against Roberta's chapped mouth.

 _That's my boy—always did know what a girl needed,_ Roberta smiled inwardly.

\+ l + l +

Two hours later, Roberta's eyes shot open, and her breathing cut off in a gurgling choke. Her body shook with spasms and lurched forward.

Al grabbed her shoulders, holding her upright as her eyes stared blindly, and he saw her tongue rolling in her mouth. He held her as tightly as his arthritic arms could manage, repeating her name over and over again until she quieted.

When he laid her back down, she wasn't breathing.

Al pressed lightly against her chest.

"Berta?"

He patted her cheek. "Wake up, Berta..."

But she didn't wake.

And then it happened.

Edward wanted to run away—flee as fast as he could—and yet he couldn't.

Al had no thoughts—

Just distilled memory and forsaken instinct—

Al screamed. He pulled at hunks of his hair. Dug his nails into his sun-spotted cheeks. Threw his whole body against the wall, causing the whole house to reverberate as he pounded his fists into pulpy bruises while he sobbed and cursed and declared vengeance at what couldn't be beaten.

Edward was at the house in nine seconds.

The front door was unlocked, and he soundlessly treaded up the steps. When he reached the tiny bedroom, he knocked on the door frame until he had Al's attention.

Al finally looked up. He registered: red eyes, pale skin, ethereal beauty. He didn't see Edward as his quiet next door neighbor. _Demon_ , he thought through his emotional haze—but then he changed his mind— _angel?_

"Hello, Al," Edward greeted in a tone designed to calm.

Al's subsequent words had no premeditation. "I want to go, too," he rasped, barely audible.

"Go where?"

Al looked almost confused by Edward's question as he pointed at his wife. "With Berta."

"She wanted you to live."

"She doesn't always get her way—just most of the time." He gave a laugh that was half a sob.

"What about your children and grandchildren?"

"They're a happy lot—wouldn't surprise them anyway. They never thought I'd outlast her much."

"How do you know you'll go to the same place?"

"There are certain things you _know_ will last forever. Like she always said: We, two, we're glue."

Edward didn't know what to say—and yet he'd never felt such agony, only now tempered by this new burst of hope in Al... It made Edward feel like he had to do something— _anything_.

"Please," Al begged.

"Will you forgive me?" Edward begged.

Al eyed him in partial confusion. "But there'd be nothing to forgive."

Edward wanted to sink into the floor.

Seeing something in Edward's expression, Al turned away with a satisfied nod. He turned back to his wife and clasped her hand, his back to Edward.

And there was no doubt. No hesitation. Nothing but a sense of time and place and alignment.

Edward bit Al.

He stopped when Al's heart stopped.

Edward gently lifted the lifeless body and laid him down on the bed beside Roberta.

The two of them looked... at peace.

Edward went home then.

He picked up the letter he'd written to Carlisle hours before. He looked over it, and then at the bottom, he wrote out:

_I'm coming home if you and Esme will have me. I might never be able to forgive myself, but I can try, even if it's a penance that can never be filled. But the way I'm trying to resolve it now is not the way. I want to be around the father and mother I have come to love. I have doubted you and myself, but that ends now. For as I was told by a much wiser man, "There are certain things you know will last forever."_

_Forgive me for my transgressions. I miss you in earnest. I hope to hear from you soon._

_Your beloved prodigal,_

_Edward Cullen_

After he sealed the envelope and added the stamp, he plodded through the night with slow steps—slow even for a human. When he reached the post office, he slid the letter into the box with clenched eyes. He dropped it in, and then he turned to go back home.

He would wait for the response for as long as it took.

But he knew it wouldn't take long.

\+ l + l +

March 15, 2005

\+ l + l +

Edward was pretty sure he had enjoyed running as a child. He didn't remember it in distinct memories but rather a cloud of emotion, with shoes pounding into dirt and the wind stinging as his own sweaty hairs whipped off and back onto his cheeks. There had been a thrill to it—a goal in site or a friend to beat to the finish. He remembered it in a vague sense of freedom.

As a vampire, running was not entirely dissimilar. Edward loved running in the way that he love music. When you ran, the voices in the auditorium couldn't keep up with you. The world slipped away, and all that remained was physics and basic motion. A foot pushing off squishing mud. A knee pushing through the branches of dense bracken. A double-barreled leap over the planks of a field fence. The voices faded away, but so did time, memory.

As Edward ran now—at this hour—at this minute—at this second—Edward was as vulnerable as a human child again. He was running. He was running for the life of him, and if he didn't make it, there would be no reason...

_Bella._

_Bella._

_Bella._

He repeated her name as a mantra, needing the noise, the beat and chime of the syllables to quench his desperation—to steel his hope.

And then he was in reach—not of Bella—but the area—and his mind was grabbing at the slips of thought:

_...Mark, get the cat! It's licking the baby again!_

_...baking soda, tomato sauce, canned peaches—and no cookies. Shawn the little fucker was in here again—I'm going to—_

_...so tired..._

_...would you believe that? Warm day, tomorrow. I'd better tell Therese. She'll want to go shopping..._

He couldn't find _his_ thoughts. And yet, Edward knew that meant nothing. James could have taken her. He could have injured her. Bella could be dying, and Edward simply unable to hear her thoughts...

But then—the trees thinned and the shadows became a strata of lines—and Edward's ears were straining, nostrils flaring—and then he emerged, and there was a red truck, the small two-story, and nothing else...

Edward sniffed the air. He listened.

He heard nothing. But the scent in the air...

James had been here.

And gone.

Bella's smell... Edward ran forward then, leaping up directly to Bella's second story window and swinging it open. The scent that he knew better than any other swept over him, and his throat wrenched in a stinging pain as he took it in.

And yet, the smell was faint. Marginally so, but enough that Edward knew that Bella had not been back home since her appointment.

Nor had Charlie.

And yet, he wondered, as he ran down the steps... _where was Bella? Her truck was here, so..._

Angela. Ben. _Laurent_.

Edward was running again.

This time, he was headed toward town: past lawn furniture, play ground sets, and telephone poles. He was vaguely aware of the risk he was taking—someone might look at their window and make out his fleeting form despite the rapid darkening of the day light.

When he jumped over the last green picket fence, he halted. Edward stood on the flagstone path and did not move, but then his cell phone buzzed. A low, soft vibration, and yet, Edward didn't reach down to pick it up.

Because the smell of blood was in the air.

And vampires.

Edward ran ahead.

And inside...

_Emmett. Rosalie. They were fighting Laurent. The blood in the room. Ben's father. Just Ben's father. The rest of the house was empty. Ben's father was bleeding from a slash across his chest—but the scent was merely sanguine. No trace of venom. He had not been bitten. Carlisle was crouched over him, partially in a defensive position, but also focused on medical procedure. His white hands were holding the wound closed._

_Laurent had gotten Emmett by the arm. Laurent twisted Emmett's arm and moving with kamikaze bravado—leaving his back exposed to Rosalie, but then Emmett's neck also was exposed to Laurent._

_Rosalie leaped as Emmett threw them both back, so Rosalie missed, and the two males went crashing back into a bookcase._

_The heavy tomes went tumbling down on top of them._

Edward ran in through the door and saw the scene with his own eyes.

Rosalie smacked Laurent's teeth away from Emmett's arm, but Laurent's kick in reply sent her sprawling back.

With a yell, Emmett tried to pin Laurent, but as Emmett was always a terrible wrestler, Laurent rolled out and managed to get free, but _Emmett still managed to throw out a fist. Laurent seemed to absorb the blow for the slightest portion of second—his nails skirted up Emmett's arm, ripping the fabric, but then the force of Emmett's blow seemed to hit him, and Laurent went skirting back—and into Edward._

Edward threw Laurent to the floor, cracking tiles with the impact. Edward pinned him so that he could not escape, though he tried at first—thrashing and hissing and growling, and yet Edward caught every reflex, every instinctual attack.

Laurent's final jerk for freedom was in tune with his own defeated laugh.

And then silence. The entire room still.

Edward whispered, "Why?

Laurent looked at Edward with a strangely peaceful face, and then he made his request. "Just kill him too, okay?"

"You had a choice—and you didn't take it— _why_?" Edward demanded.

Laurent's faced stilled momentarily, absorbing Edward's words, and then he looked up into Edward's eyes. "It only ever seems like a choice when you don't have it anymore," Laurent murmured glumly, and yet the trace of humor was still there in his tone, like Edward was amusing him for some reason. _Sometimes there are no good choices—not really._

"But—"

But he was cut off, because Rosalie had flown across the room, and such was Edward's shock that he didn't stop her when her teeth cut through Laurent's jugular and tore the face from Edward's vision.

Edward simply stared, and then he backed away, releasing the now stilled body. "He was... He was—"

Rosalie cut him off. "—a total fucking minion who attempted to kill a human on our territory because his ass-crazy boss told him to!" Rosalie screeched in reply, and then she looked to the side, glancing at Emmett. "And he almost killed my husband."

Edward opened his mouth to say something again, but Carlisle spoke over him with a soft authority, "Rosalie—I'll need your help. I can't hold his wounds shut and run or drive. Your control is the best after Edward's. I need you. Emmett you'll have to dispose of Laurent, here, and try to hide the evidence," and then Carlisle turned toward Edward, pulling keys out of his pocket and tossing them with a light arc at Edward as he instructed Edward. "Alice saw her in Port Angeles, Edward. Go get her."

And then Edward's mission came rushing back to him.

He was out the door, and the engine of Carlisle's Mercedes was rumbling in the next second.

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Night was settling as Edward drove. He had just passed Lake Sutherland on the 101 when his phone rang again.

He picked it up.

"Edward, where are you?" _Jasper._

"Four, maybe five minutes outside of Port Angeles at this speed. Where is she?"

"She's with Charlie and Maggie—she was with Ben and Angela—but she left them, so—"

"But Maggie's appointment was right after Bella's!"

"I know, Edward, but you have the car. James is—"

"Where the hell is he?"

"James hasn't made any decisions—Alice can't see—he's skirting the forest to the south of the city still."

"James' decision will be to hunt down Bella as soon as he hits her trail!" Edward growled into the phone mike."Just get to Maggie's, okay?"

"Where are you?"

"We were hunting Victoria. She tried to seek out one of your patients—but I think she gave up—there was some some sort of pouncy party with a bunch of guys in purple parkas and Ethel-ish haircuts—"

"John!" Edward gave a shout of relief. "He's going on a ski trip. She left him?"

"Yeah, I think the lot of 'em scared 'er, honestly, and then she caught our scent and fled, and even with Alice's visions, she got away..."

"Stay on her. I'm getting Bella."

"Edward—we're coming, too—if James comes, he'll—"

"Fine. Come. I'm going to Maggie's. See you there."

Edward flipped the phone shut, and he drove. He sped, and he may have hit a squirrel, and then there was at least one incident with a mother in a station wagon full of kids shaking her fist at him—but then he was roaring into Maggie's subdivision, only to suddenly see—

A familiar profile beneath the lamplight on the side of the road.

 _"BELLA_!" Edward roared, as he slammed on the brakes, jerking the car to the side of the street.

"Edward," Bella said with a happy—if surprised—smile. She was standing there, looking content, looking happy, and looking completely safe and untouched, and she was... walking a puppy— _well_ , Edward thought, _as well as anyone could walk a puppy_. It would seem that Howdy the puppy had managed to tangle himself on his own leash. Then, his nose perking up as it caught Edward's scent, Howdy started yipping at Edward.

Edward gave a sharp growl, and the small dog's yips cut off in a short, fearful whine.

"Edward! It's just a—"

"Howdy—Maggie's grief dog. I know. I know all about it. Bella, do you know where Ben and Angela are?" Edward spoke with clear urgency.

Bella's mouth fell open, and she stared for a half-second before replying, "On a date downtown—they dropped me off. Edward is there something—?"

"We had a falling out with the coven staying with us. The leader, James, is the in the area—"

"—oh." Bella's mouth snapped shut.

"Yes. I need you to get Maggie and Charlie away from here. Where are they?"

Bella's mouth turned up into a wry grin. "At the house. I seemed to be in the er... 'way of things' before, and I wanted to give them some privacy, so that's why I was I walking Howdy. It seemed like the polite thing to do..." she trailed off awkwardly.

"Right. Well, regardless they need to be interrupted now," and he grabbed Bella's hand, and they started down the street—Bella holding the terrified Howdy in her arms as they passed the houses with swinging front porches and boring three-bush landscaping, and grayed knee-high fences.

They had just rounded the corner of Maggie's street, and Maggie's small ranch-style was in view, when Howdy—seeming incapable of holding in his fear any longer, let out a low whine and then—Edward jerked the puppy out of Bella's hands and tossed him into the grass—a thin stream of yellow piss.

"He peed," Bella stated staring down at the now-mortified Howdy, who was whimpering shamefully while also keeping a sharp eye on Edward.

"We can't deal with him right now. We need to get to Charlie and Maggie," and then Edward started pulling on Bella's arm again, urging her up the street to Maggie's blue house.

Except that Howdy raced off ahead of them, a poof of dark brown fuzz disappearing down along the side of the fence and along the side of Maggie's yard.

With a sigh, Edward ran after the puppy, and Bella followed. With easy grace, Edward bent down and caught the puppy's leash. In protest, Howdy no longer whimpered, but instead began barking hysterically, and Edward growled at the puppy, but Howdy ignored him, and so Edward reached down to pick him up, waving off Bella's "Oh, Edward" to catch the spastic puppy.

But Howdy wasn't barking at him.

The wind. Edward caught it as he touched Howdy. The scent.

It swept up from the ditch that ran low in curve from the back of Maggie's house.

The scent.

_James._

Edward jumped back and caged his arms around Bella, and then his brain was scanning the area, following the direction of the scent as Bella gazed up at him in dawning awareness that something was wrong.

And then he could hear with his ears as well as he could hear with his mind, because there was shouting, and then Edward froze as the light in Maggie's living room flipped on and both Charlie and Maggie came into view, clearly backing into the room.

At his side, Bella gave a gasp. Edward realized that her fingers were digging into his shirt. Her gaze was locked on the window. She could see what was happening. She knew, and Edward wanted to cover her eyes, to protect her. He wanted to save her from this. He wanted to tear inside the house and challenge his opponent, but he knew he couldn't. Edward couldn't take on James alone—James would come after Bella. Edward didn't have to read his thoughts to know that.

But if Alice and Jasper came—Edward slid out his phone, dialing the buttons, and letting the phone ring, and the phone rang and rang... with no answer.

Through the window, Edward could see Charlie standing in front of Maggie. One arm was thrown to the side, as if to cover Maggie as much as possible and Charlie's free hand was holding what was unmistakably his pistol. Behind him, Maggie was crying—there were tears on her cheeks, and she was clutching Charlie's shirt.

James was not visible through the bay window, and yet Edward knew where he was. Edward saw him through Maggie's panicked vision. James was standing under the arch between the living room and the hallway. He had a hand on his hip, his other hand was lazily braced against the door frame.

Charlie was yelling. "Stand back, or I'll shoot!" he shouted. "Stand back or I'll shoot!"

Over and over again.

"Stand back—or I'll _shoot_!"

"Just leave," Maggie gasped over Charlie's shoulder. _Charlie's going to kill him—Charlie's holding the gun—why isn't he backing away?—if Charlie shoots him, he'll—_

James took a step forward.

And then Edward cringed as he realized Charlie had made a decision.

There was the click of the trigger.

And then the shot of the gun. The sound of rock hitting rock at close range as the bullet bounced off of James' impenetrable chest and broke into dust and smaller debris which then ricocheted back toward Charlie and Maggie.

And Charlie screamed as a spike of stray shrapnel pierced his thigh.

Bella's entire body froze at the sounds—at the sight before her eyes.

Howdy, without a bark, took off running across the yard.

Inside the living room, everything seemed to still for a minute. Charlie clutched his leg. Maggie clutched Charlie. James stood and watched them.

But then the dust finally cleared, and Maggie screamed as the realization hit that James was unhurt.

_Just standing there. No blood._

James started laughing. He liked the expression on Maggie's face.

And then James stepped forward, towering over Charlie and Maggie, as if he was ready to make his final pounce, but then he paused, taking his eyes away from his cowering victims. He turned and stared out the window, directly at Edward and Bella. "Hello," he mouthed mockingly at them, wiggling his shoulders. And then he held up his hand, index finger out and hand shaped like a gun, and he fired a fake shot, laughing as he saw Bella give a choked sob at Edward's side.

And then he lunged. And even if Edward didn't want to watch, he knew what was happening. James plunged a fist at Charlie first, sending him across the room and smashing into an oak-framed mirror on the adjacent wall, and the shining pieces fell with a shattering clamor, cutting flesh and reflecting blood and certain death in a hundred broken triangles. Even with his hands cut and bleeding, a deep scratch down arms, and the wound in his leg, Charlie tried to push off the wall, to pick up his hands so that could crawl back toward Maggie, but James had Maggie. He had marched to the center of the living room and pulled her upright by the back of the neck so that her legs were dangling like a doll's, and Maggie's silent tears and fluttered heart were nothing but momentary amusement to James—and Edward wanted to race in and physically tear that sick smile off of him—but that was what was making this fun for James—James knew what he was doing to Edward—to Bella. That was why he held Maggie unnecessarily high in the air before pulling her against him and biting into her neck.

And then Maggie was screaming, and Edward was running backward—clutching a crying Bella—and taking them both away from the rusty sweet perfume of blood, from the ugly theater, and from what he couldn't stop without risking the girl at his side.

Finally realizing they were backing up, Bella gave a choked sob at his side, and she was shaking her head furiously. Right to Left. Right to Left, and then a strangled, "no—no—no," and Edward wasn't sure if she was protesting his pulling her away or the surreality before her.

But then Edward heard the thoughts, and before he could adjust—then another voice. "And where do you think you're going?" The voice was nauseatingly sing-song and girly. Edward didn't have to turn to look.

It was Victoria.

Edward tucked Bella behind him, creeping into a defensive position. Against James, Edward knew he could handle himself, but against both of them... he should have left. He shouldn't have waited for help. Jasper should have answered his phone. And now Bella was in danger.

And inside the house, James' head snapped in their direction.

Victoria raised a hand in the air and called out, "Hi, honey, I'm home!" And then she cackled at what she considered a joke.

"Just one second," James called, and then he dropped Maggie, her head making a hollow crack as it hit the floor—and Edward pulled Bella even closer against him, even though he knew her ears weren't sensitive enough to hear, because he knew she was seeing everything.

Edward began backing away from the house, though Victoria kept in tow with him. Meanwhile inside the living room, James walked over to a bleeding Charlie. James bent over him, smiling.

To which Charlie tried to spit on him, but the spit only managed to dribble down his chin.

"You'll pay for that," James sang like a bad lullaby, and then he stuck a finger into the shrapnel wound, causing Charlie to shriek and Edward to take an extra long leap back, so that Bella couldn't see.

Standing up, James raised his bloodied finger before sliding it between his lips and sucking with exaggerated pleasure before Charlie

Charlie watched with horror and digust on his face, and then, he spat a stuttered, "f-fu-fuck you."

James slid the finger out of his mouth, and then without an ounce of hesitation, he snapped Charlie's neck.

Bella was trembling madly over Edward's shoulder. He could feel her entire body shaking—and yet Edward couldn't focus on her. His focus was locked on Victoria, who kept leaping from side to side across the yard with a playful laugh at each jump, not unlike she was playing hopscotch.

And then James came striding out the back door of Maggie's house.

"Vicky, you brought me company," James declared with a sweep of a blood-stained arm.

"I guess you could call it that," Victoria replied dryly, even as she smiled at Edward.

"Edward, who's your little friend?"

"Leave us alone, James," Edward hissed. "My family is on their way. You'd better run while you still can."

"Leave you alone?" James opened his mouth with fake surprise, "But I wanted to invite you and your little friend to dinner. Bella, that's her name—isn't it? Hi, Bella." James waved at her with raised fingers.

Edward expected to find Bella in more tears—it would have been natural, but instead he felt her tense and stiffen. Though he could only see the profile of her face, Bella's expression was clear.

_Hatred._

Something Edward had never seen on Bella's face before, and yet right now she was blind with it. She didn't make a sound, not a peep, but each breath she release was seething with wrath.

James, looking at her, gave a single, wicked laugh.

And then he leaped forward.

Edward threw himself and Bella back across the yard.

James ran up and aligned himself with Victoria, and then their movements seemed to synchronize, and Edward saw in their thoughts how often they'd done this before.

Herded their prey.

Edward knew he had to watch James—James always made the final attack. Victoria would only ever make the first attack with James' permission. And James wanted this. He wanted to be the one to take down Edward.

They were edging back along the wood fence. At ten yards down, the fence ended, and then there was a creek, and the short line of the park. Four additional houses, and then if he and Bella could cut directly through the yard, they could get to the car.

If only he didn't have to get past two psychotic vampires.

He was preparing to make a run for it when Bella's words broke through his thoughts.

"Why did you do it?" she demanded in a furious hiss.

They all stopped.

James dropped his shoulders and pursed his lips, pretending to examine Bella with polite interest. "Well, hmmm," James hummed, turning to glance at Victoria, "Can't you just see why he likes her?"

"No," Victoria answered shortly, looking more than a little frustrated at James' need for conversation.

"I asked you a question," Bella spoke again.

James cocked his head and gazed at Bella for a long second, and then he clapped his hands, threw his head back, and laughed. "You mean—why did I make a snack out of your mommy and daddy—or—why did I step on the azalea hedge on my way across the yard? You'll have to be specific, little Bella."

"That was Maggie and my father Charlie," Bella hissed through tears.

"Oh, is that so? Your dad shot me," James informed her.

"I wish he'd killed you."

"Well, look at that." James put both hands on his hips and turned to Victoria. "Already insulting me." And then he turned back to Bella. "Not a very polite thing to say to a person, was that?" James asked aloud.

"That only applies if you actually are a person," Bella retorted.

"Touché," James deadpanned. "But you seem to think your Edward here is just better than mashed taters and gravy—and yet, you know that he's the one who got you into this mess," and James affected a falsely hurt tone. "He was a really, really mean asshole to me."

"You're going to pay for this—in some way—some how. The Cullens will hunt you down."

Edward sucked in a breath as he realized that Bella had acknowledged that they were probably going to die.

James didn't say anything this time, and that alone was a signal of what was coming, because Victoria's crouch deepened, and Edward crouched deeper in sync, monitoring every turn of their thoughts, and waiting for the moment when the attack would come.

And then a sound of crackling branches came from the East.

James and Victoria turned to look as Edward leaped back with Bella—and he saw as they arced over the fence that a distraught Howdy had come back into view—only to flee again.

But Edward was running with Bella, running with his eyes in the back of his head, and he swung Bella around in front of him, pressed to his chest.

James and Victoria lunged behind him, James following him like a straight arrow.

They were two houses down when Edward had to dodge.

James missed him by a foot.

But then Bella was behind his back again, and he was once again in a defensive position.

Backed against a thick spruce.

Bella, eyes closed, trembling against his spine.

He felt her press a kiss against him.

Like a goodbye.

And James crouched low.

Victoria did too.

And then once again, the sound of barking.

Though this time both James and Victoria ignored it.

James leaped.

Edward gasped even as he jumped with Bella to grab a branch on the tree above, because he expected to hear the rattling of the oak beneath him. He expected James to crack against the tree. To have to dodge Victoria. To reposition Bella.

But there was barking, and then a dark shape propelled into view, knocking James onto the ground.

_Jasper._

Victoria tried to dive after him, but a smaller shape seized upon her.

_Alice._

And there was snarling and dodging and Edward had to keep repositioning Bella to keep her out of the line of attack, but then Jasper's melee with James seemed to end with both of them on opposite sides of the clearing, and James crouched like he was going to lunge at Jasper again, but instead he darted to the side, toward Alice and Victoria, but Alice, foreseeing his move, threw herself back and out of the way at the last second.

With a jerk of the hand, James had Victoria pulled into the forest, and they were running.

And then they were gone.

Jasper, Alice, and Edward listened for a long moment ears tuned to the forest, before shifting out of their defensive stances.

Then Alice walked over to where Edward held Bella.

Brushing aside the sweaty, tear-stuck strand on Bella's chin, Alice asked, "Bella, are you alright?"

Bella's face blanked for a second, as if she just realized that she was allowed to feel anything at all.

And it was through Jasper that Edward felt what was coming.

With a sob, Bella fell apart.

\+ l + l +

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Petrified Forest National Park is along Interstate 40 between Holbrook and Navajo, in the United States. It features one of the world's largest and most colorful concentrations of petrified wood, mostly of the species _Araucarioxylon arizonicum_. Petrified wood (from the Greek root "petro" meaning "rock" or "stone", literally "wood turned into stone") is fulgurite: it consists of rock, such as quartz, fused together by electric discharge. Wiki this for more info.
> 
> 2\. _The Bird in the Gilded Cage_ www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=oKfw2WFMPFw
> 
>  _3\. Funiculì Funiculà_ www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=8V27V_kAXp4


	11. A Silent Heart's Demise

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February 15, 1931

\+ l + l +

With his legs curled beneath him on his perfectly made bed, Edward sat listening to the thoughts of the family gathered next door at Roberta and Al's. The eldest son found the couple that morning when he'd stopped by to deliver the paper; and then the coroner, a police officer, and the second son had attended to the business of death. Now all of the necessary duties were completed, and family was in mourning. There were tears and laments and some bouts of misplaced and slightly lunatic laughter, but there was also something more.

 _A sense of fate?_ Edward almost wanted to call it.

The various family members kept passing through the rooms, and their sentiments tended to mirror one another's:

_...Wonder where he found whatever he found to go on with her. Wasn't any morphine to be had and that strange cut in the neck...?_

_...Looked like two babes, they did—never seen two more peaceful in their final rest..._

_...Two swans headed off to the same horizon..._

The final thought gave Edward pause, and he leaned back, drawing in the scents from the room around him—the must and leather from the book shelves, the acidic ash smell from the hearth, and the unmistakable licorice from his shoes. He had polished them until they were a shiny black just that morning. Edward was half-considering going to the funeral or the wake—but he thought it might seem odd for the murderer to show up at the deceased's final celebration And yet, he also had the distinct sense that given Al's final words to him, and the short though immediate depth of their exchange, it felt almost equally _wrong_ not to well-wish the man and his beloved on their immortal journey—rude, even.

 _But no_ , Edward thought, _no funerals. Though_ , he considered, _some sort of tribute should be in order._

Thus determined, Edward headed down the hall to the back of the small house and pulled open the door of the last room. This was a room he rarely entered: the old family room of the house. He'd bought the house completely furnished as part of an estate sale, and this room retained much of its original character. There was a wireless on the dresser and two sofas arranged with a game chest in the center, and along the wall stood an antique upright piano. It was still covered in a white sheet—and while Edward had peeked under the cover more than once, he had always stopped himself from removing it. The piano seemed like an indulgence in some way—one that he did not deserve.

But now was different. It was different because he wasn't intending to play for himself. He wanted to play a song for Roberta and Al, and well... about everything else, too.

With silent ceremony, Edward whipped the white sheet off the instrument and folded it in a perfect square before laying it on the end table. Then he settled himself onto the creaky piano stool. His right hand moved instinctively toward middle C, and he ran his fingers down the keys, listening to see if a note was off key. But not a one. The piano was perfectly in tune.

Edward started to finger the keys.

He almost wanted to play something pretty—like the song he had written for Esme and Carlisle in the years before he departed—an intricate, flowing testament to their love, but _no_ —that would not do. Next, he thought about playing something tranquil to wish Al and Roberta peace in their final rest, not unlike a lullaby, but that did not seem to suit either. Finally, Edward threw his hands up in the air and gave a long sigh. He stood and marched to the other side of the room.

But then he hesitated as his gaze fell down upon the table. There were a collection of small candles, partially coated in dust.

He would need two.

He grabbed the matchbox from the chest of drawers, and with a flick of the wrist, lit the tallest of the collection. He picked it up along with its scarlet twin, and carried them to the upright, resting them both atop.

One lit.

One unlit.

And he began to play.

At first the keys were random and lost. They weren't meaningful but saccharine and wanting. He was trying too hard, he realized. Thus, Edward's mind gave up on its attempt to control, and he settled for focusing on the flickering of the twisting flame of the first candle in contrast to the peaceful idleness of the black wick of the second.

Edward's first thought was not of any human he himself had killed—not of one of his "victims—nor of Berta and Al, but instead Edward thought of a lonely night back in Chicago when he had entered a church to say a prayer for a deceased bum. And with that memory, the first lines came out...

If love could light a candle,

If fire could soothe the nightmares,

If memory and thought would move in tandem,

If dying stars could ask the prayers...

And then it was like he no longer had control over his fingers or his mind, because the memories took control—of how he helped sometimes—and how he failed so completely in other attempts. He played a song that sang of comic book heroism and of avenging, red-eyed vigilantism. He thought of modern ideas of good and evil, and ancient myths of love and hate. His fingers moved over the keys, while he hummed the words in his head:

The differences twixt monsters and men

be neither night-day, nor hero-villain.

Eros misshoots, Pandora slides the lid,

Who superintends the designs of sin?

And Edward wished to an extent that he could stop himself, that he could make the notes go away, that he, like Berta and Al, could find his end the normal way, that he could fall victim to poison or flame or even some fucking lightning. He wished that he had stayed human and weak and fragile, and yes, there was the secret part of him that wished for more, too—that wished for a faceless girl he could love with all his heart. That wished for weddings, birthday parties, financial worries, small quibbles and tears at funerals—that wished for what Al and Berta had. But he knew that without Carlisle, he would have died anyway. The question was... would he have _really_?

He didn't know, and yet he wished his soul could escape this immortal sentence. That it could slip away, but no, it could not. It was trapped. And he was stuck as a hellion in this half-life.

And yet the ardent soul objects

to the silent heart's demise.

"She ate fruit!" the hell king sings,

and yet the archer stumbles, shoots awry.

And then, Edward pulled his gaze away from the keys, stared directly ahead and into the bluest part of the tiny flame, and the song returned to the refrain.

If love could light a candle,

If fire could soothe the nightmares,

If memory and thought would move in tandem,

If dying stars could ask the prayers...

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March 15, 2005

\+ l + l +

"Are you okay?" Alice asked Bella in a careful voice.

 _"Not so fuckin much" would be the answer to that query_. Jasper cringed as Bella's pain swept over him, and through him, into Edward.

Edward wanted to hold Bella tighter, but if he held her any tighter, he would crush her. Still, it also seemed that Bella wanted his grip, his arms molded around her, because her fingers were pulling on the grey wool of his jacket with every last ounce of strength, and yet the rest of her body drooped as if the weight in her feet was leaden.

"Bella, Bella, Bella," Edward whispered her name repeatedly, running his fingers through her hair and rubbing vertical strokes up and down the curve of her spine. He could feel her pain, filtered through Jasper's thoughts, and nothing had ever made Edward feel so helpless. He had been a lot of things—but never so helpless. _Because it was his fault. Because he had taken on Bella as a patient. Because he had taken them all on as patients—because he had tried to soothe his own conscience, he had made it worse—and now look what he had done. He had found love—and destroyed it. Bella no longer had her father—and it was because of him. If he had stayed away—if he had protected her better—if he hadn't fucking gone into his office on that day—_

 _STOP it, Edward._ Jasper mentally snapped at him, but then with a focused calm, Jasper whispered, "She needs you to focus on _her_ right now."

Edward nodded, kissing Bella's hair as if to bury himself in her scent, and then he turned to face Jasper, "Can you...?" he whispered in an agonized plea, too low and fast for Bella to hear.

But Jasper shook his head. _I know what you're thinkin, and it ain't gonna work. I could send her fatigue until she nodded off to sleep, but we need to get hell bent fer leather._ _And in my experience, sometimes it's best not to keep it in—just let 'er rip and all..._ Then Jasper turned to Alice, "Where are they?"

Alice, who had been focused on Bella, took a step back and closed her eyes. _James. James the jackal. Where are you? And where is your_ _ **bitch**_ _—? I almost ripped her pony tail off except that—_ but then a vision— _James and Victoria no longer in the woods but driving in a black—_

"You left the Mercedes with the keys in the ignition?" Alice raised an eyebrow at Edward.

Edward ground his teeth and clenched his eyes before answering slowly, "Fine. It seems like I'll have to buy Carlisle a new car. Now focus, Alice. Where are they headed?"

Alice closed her eyes again. _A window front. A boutique with some cute dresses._ Edward almost groaned, but then the vision shifted, moving to the small restaurant next door _—a door swung open and Angela, smoothing her shirt, stepped out of women's restroom and into a narrow peach-colored hallway. Tacky green ivy and yellow neon bulbs hung from above, and the walls were lined with prints of stock antique advertisements for tourism in Venice. Angela made her way down the hall quickly, passing a busy busboy along the way. When she turned the corner, she emerged into the wider dining room and headed to a table over by the east window, where Ben was sitting._

_Angela sat with a smile on her face, and then reached across the table and caught his hand in hers. The moment would have been perfect except that outside the window the white and yellow lights of a familiar black Mercedes pulled up, and when the window rolled down, it was a white-faced woman with fox-colored hair that stared from beneath the street lamps._

Sensing Alice's apprehension, Jasper groaned even as she asked, "So when do we leave?"

"Not yet—we need to get Bella back to the house. She's still James primary target," Edward insisted.

"Edward, how can you say that?" Alice asked. "It's—"

Bella's head shot up. "Who? Who are they going after next?"

 _Something I'd like to know too..._ Jasper tacked on.

 _You should tell her,_ Alice urged Edward, though the expression on her face did not change. She remained smiling compassionately at Bella.

Edward spoke low and in a voice that was too fast for Bella to hear. "She doesn't need anything else to worry about. She needs to get home, and we need to take care of—"

" _Who_ , Edward?" Bella cut him off, and her expression was furious, and her soft brown eyes were red-rimmed, and he really couldn't _not_ tell her...

With a sigh, Edward gave in. "Alice had a vision of James and Victoria going after Ben and Angela—"

"Ben!—Angela!" Bella's eyes were open and wide. "We have to save them."

Edward shook his head at her. "We need to get you home—or somewhere safe first."

"NO ONE ELSE!" Bella yelled, and her thundering tone left the three vampires completely silent, and then she pushed slightly on Edward, signaling that she wanted to be set down, and reluctantly, he unwrapped his arms from around her and settled her onto the forest floor.

With a steadying breath, Bella asked Alice, "How long til they get there? How long do we have?"

But Jasper answered. "Ain't no way of knowing—well," He shrugged. "Not unless Alice sees a clock."

"No clock—I don't think they've decided yet," Alice explained, and then she frowned, her face screwing up slightly. "It keeps changing. I just think they're headed in that direction."

"Then we need to stop them," Bella determined with a set expression.

But Edward shook his head. He knew where this was heading. "Not 'we' Bella. We have to get you out of here. You shouldn't have to deal with this—too..."

Bella's eyes flashed. "They're my friends—I—"

But Edward spoke over her. "—no, they're going after them because Ben's _my_ patient, but let's not forget that you're the preferred target, Bella. If you go near them now, we'll have to worry about protecting you as well, and then we put Ben and Angela at risk too."

Bella took a shallow breath and gave a short nod, and Edward was relieved that she had apparently accepted his words, but then asked, "Where are the rest of the Cullens? Can't they help?"

Alice answered, "Ben's father got a nasty cut from one of the vampires—so Carlisle is waiting for the helicopter at Forks hospital—Rosalie is with them. Esme was our contact point at home, and Emmett is on his way."

"And just how long til he gets his over-sized ass over here?" Jasper asked.

"Five minutes," Alice replied.

"Regardless, we're wasting time," Edward growled. "We need to leave _now_ —Victoria and James could be on them in two minutes. We're wasting time as it is—and we can't afford to."

"Well, then just what do you propose, sir?" Jasper drawled while rolling his eyes.

Edward ignored his tone and continued, "I take Bella home—to Esme. You two form up with Emmett to protect Ben and Angela—the three of you will be more than a match."

"No, Edward!" Bella shook her head. "You shouldn't stay with me. You should go. I want you to."

"No—I'm not leaving—" but then her last sentence caught his attention. "You want me to leave?" Edward asked with dawning comprehension.

"Not like that." Bella shook her head with her eyes closed. "It's just... I want you to—"

"—want me to...?" Edward urged, cupping both of her shoulders in his hands and searching her face for her meaning.

Bella took a long breath, and then spoke slowly. "I want you to kill that—that—that _monster_." She opened her eyes for a second making sure he was giving her his full attention and then she closed them, taking another long breath and continued. "I want you to eliminate him from the earth. I want _you_ to do it for m-my d-d-dad," and then a new round of tears started leaking from her closed eyes, and Edward pulled her against his chest.

"I'll do anything you want..." he murmured. _It's the least I can do—_ and then Edward cringed over the word. _She wants me to kill James—and yet is he the only monster here?_

But Jasper interrupted his thoughts. "For the love of all that is..." Jasper slapped his own forehead. _She ain't blaming you, dimwit, so stop flipping out over it._

Edward ignored him. "I'm sorry—for everything. I wish I could take it all back. Keep you perfectly happy," he whispered into Bella's ear.

Bella jerked back from him, hearing the deeper meaning in his words. "I don't wish that. I don't want to take it _all_ back." She cupped the side of his face and spoke in an earnest tone, as if begging him to understand, "People like James aren't your fault."

"Nor should they be yours," Edward rejoined.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah." Jasper stomped his foot to break the moment. "We gotta get haulin, so what's the battle plan?"

Edward paused, considering, and then he answered. "Alice will have to take Bella." Jasper would probably be a better bet against James, but Jasper would also be a risk for Bella...

Jasper rolled his eyes when he felt Edward's apprehension, but then he asked, "And just how is Alice supposed to get her home? We ran here following Victoria's trail. And you got Carlisle's car stolen." Jasper crossed both arms and narrowed his eyes at Edward.

"I can run her," Alice chimed.

"Run me?" Bella looked more than a little unnerved.

"You'll have to avoid the highway—and we'll have to figure out what to do about—" Jasper didn't finish the thought aloud. _We'll have to figure out what to do about the fact that the sheriff of Forks and his girlfriend were brutally murdered—better believe that's going to hit the news. A cop-killing. And not to mention that his daughter has suddenly disappeared. Hell, that'll make the national networks._

Edward shook his head. They didn't have time to think about that right now, but he did have time for a quick...

He grabbed Bella and pulled her towards him. There was doubt in him as cupped the sides of her face, and he almost made the kiss a quick one, but then he felt them—through Jasper. Bella's emotions were desperation and love and a tinge of lust and mostly... _hope._

Edward kissed her like he might never see her again.

And then they parted, Edward and Jasper shooting off toward the city, and Alice and Bella, the picture of odd as the tiny girl ran like the wind while easily holding the larger girl in her arms.

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February 15, 1931

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Yes. T'would be better to dance alone,

to waltz away to a nameless song.

For Demons have no prayers to own;

paradise lost amid thorn and throng.

Edward was still playing. He only realized it because he had left the chorus after countless minutes of repeating it to himself and not composing but trying to charter his memories as if battling surf and rapids. He had realized along the way that the song was not just about Roberta and Al.

At first he thought something in him might being trying to apologize for everything. To leap out in song and sacrifice itself in bloodless words and notes. But it wasn't really about them—it was about something lost. For him. For them. For something he'd lost.

The empty heart eats at itself.

Tis not love, not life, not a gorgon's imitation.

True love sails with wings and sun

above the roots of doubt, above temptation.

And that line, he thought, could be about Berta and Al, even if the wish was his own.

That epiphany pained, so he continued on again, testing the various strands of notes.

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March 15, 2005

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Jasper and Edward entered downtown Port Angeles at opposite ends. Edward took the side closest to the restaurant. The warm glow from the street lights and the store signs gave the brick-lined sidewalks a pleasant, inviting feel. The area was emptying. The lingering diners and shoppers spoke in tired tones, and the predominant sounds were the gusts off the bay and the creaking of the overhanging wooden shop signs. All of which was good because it made it easier for Edward to hunt. He was hunting in multiple ways. By scent. By sight. By sound. But mostly by mind.

_...can't take the boat out tomorrow if the winds are going to be like that..._

— _thirty five fucking dollars for that shirt! Who do they think they are? You'd think that..._

_...what kind of restaurant calls itself Italian and serves Parmesan out of a can? Or doesn't fresh crack their pepper? Or thinks that al dente means "cream-o-wheat?"_

_"Your dad will understand, Ben."_

Edward gave a half-sigh of relief. Ben was still safe. Or relatively so.

_"I don't know if he will, actually, but I'm hoping that he realizes that things are different between us."_

_And then Angela reached across the table to slide her fingers between his, "I think he will," she said with a reassuring smile._

The table to their left had an older couple, behind them was a family of four, then a family of three, and then two other couples, and a group of middle-aged women.

Neither of the nomads was in the room with them, so Edward began searching the minds around them. An over-bundled twenty-something woman was standing in the front of the restaurant cooling off from the heat inside the restaurant and taking long, much-needed drags on her cigarette. From her eyes, Edward saw that the main strip was clear of James and Victoria.

So he searched the sides of the restaurant and the back. Two of the busboys, tired from their shift, were taking the edge off by plowing through a twelve pack of beer. Their legs hung out of the back of the truck bed as they discussed the various qualities of the waitresses inside.

There was a shuffling of cans farther back, but that was from a scavenging rat.

Edward searched the surrounding stores—the boutique next door. The fudge and candy shop and the hair boutique on the other side.

But nothing.

And then Edward had to slow down his speed, because he was now downtown himself, and as he lifted his head to take in a long draft of air, sniffing for any threats, he smelled... Not a scent of the threatening vampires—but since they had been in the car...

Either way, he needed to call. He picked up his phone and began dialing.

Only to hear the loud mental shout— _AID_ - _WARRRRD!_

And then Edward disappeared behind the nearest building and was shooting down the alley and flinging himself onto a fire escape and along a balcony and then tearing across the rooftops.

He could hear Jasper's thoughts becoming clearer and clearer.

Jasper was fighting Victoria.

Or to better describe it, Jasper was _chasing_ Victoria.

_Fuck. Fuck. -dodge- Fucking slippier than a coyote. Did she just go—? Yeah, in through the window..._

_Spatula. Grill grate. Why the hell did I get myself..?. —over the counter._

But where was _James_? Alice's vision—and then Edward realized—Alice's second vision had only included Victoria in the car. James wasn't here. _He could be anywhere! He could be_ —and yet Jasper and Victoria's fight was escalating. Growing more frenzied. Jasper's emotional state was elevating Victoria's. But Victoria's talent would protect her. Jasper's would...

Jasper needed him, so Edward ran ahead, sliding down the eaves of the roof and into the hedges covering the edge of the tree line. And then it was dark—there were no lamps here—he would not be seen, so he ran in a straight line.

Edward neared at the same time that he heard another, familiar mind closing in.

_Fight. Fight. Fight. —Gonna Fight Fight Fight Until the Dogs Come Home to Night—Yahooooo!_

It would appear that Emmett was his usual pugnacious self.

Edward gave a shout—one that Emmett wouldn't miss, and then he threw himself through the broken window, catching new shards of glass and sending them shattering and tinkling as he slid along the metal counter, knocking off a small bucket of pens and a pile of paper cups onto the floor. He braked at the same time that Victoria tried to flee.

He caught her by the knob of her ankle, which sent her curling back towards him—but she managed to adjust. She threw a fist hammering into his lower back, and Edward went careening into the wall of steel cabinets, the metal whining and then crunching with his impact.

But Jasper had the window blocked, and she was running, half-sliding across the room. A fierce and calculating glint to her eyes. She was going to go through the wall. Except that she froze at the last minute—heading sideways.

Because the wall opened from the other end. The bricks and dry wall crumbling in all directions—and Emmett erupted into view, powder and dust rolling off him as he thudded forward, arms spread wide.

Victoria, blocked by the three of them, halted. "Hold on!" she yelled. This, too, was instinct, Edward realized. Physical evasion was no longer working for her, so she would talk—make excuses—bide her time—wait for the moment.

All of them froze.

 _Fine, then._ _She gets one chance_ , Edward decided. "Where is James?" he demanded.

Victoria put a hand on her hip and smiled at him. "Out and about..." she waved her hand about. Edward caught a flash of more trees and small houses—more forest—but then nothing.

Most of Victoria's mind was focused on all of the possible exits.

"You didn't exactly answer his question, missy," Jasper drawled in irritation. "And if you don't answer it sooner than later, you might find your _ability_ to answer cut short."

"Such... manners," Victoria cooed at them. Her tone was playful but her eyes were menacing.

"Where's your boyfriend? Just fess up," Emmett urged. _Or we'll have to take you down—and I hate taking down women—especially with nice red hair—and even with the mediocre ass—sorta weird for her to have a butt like that, especially as a vampire. Better to let Jasper do it—I can rip James a new asshole—not all that manly to take down a female half my size—and even if it's not the same, after what happened to Rosalie..._

It was like Victoria sensed Emmett's hesitance, because she sprang at him.

But Edward got her before she got Emmett. His fingers clawed into her red mane and yanked her back, throwing her feet out from underneath of her and knocking her to the floor with a snapping of tiles.

And then Jasper had her by the feet and Edward had both hands holding down her face and knees suppressing any additional flails of her arms. And yet, Victoria wasn't giving up—her mind was wild—totally lost to the normal, logical organization of a vampire's mind. A cornered animal.

Edward gave Jasper a nod, and Jasper took on a concentrated expression, imbuing their captive with a tentative sense of peace. It slowly began to work. They held her still for a long minute, and her mind started to calm—though given an inch her body still jerked and shook to get away, but Edward asked her again, anyway, "If you don't tell us where James is—we will _kill_ you. Where is James?"

"You'll kill me regardless," she hissed.

"Is he in town?" Emmett asked, kneeling down beside her.

 _No, I'm the one in town,_ she thought, but mostly she just glared at them.

"He has the car—where did he take the car?" Edward squeezed her face, forcing her eyes to meet his.

"We sent the car for a ride," _over the cliff and into the sea—James had a good laugh over that one._ And then Edward saw the image play out, _go sniff out those trails from earlier that went into town—I'll go south-southwest._

"He went south!" Edward exclaimed, growling at Victoria."Where south? Where?"

And then Victoria stared at him, comprehension dawning on her face. _There's no other way he could have known... he knew my thoughts. That's what James thought. A mind reader. Well, let's see than, Mr. mind reader. You're the three strongest fighters... and you're all here. So where's the spiky-haired little bitch, eh? Is she with your little blood sack? Is she south? Is that why you're whining at me?" Are you worried the dots are going to connect?_

Edward gave growl that was half a shriek. "Where is he?!"

And Victoria told him—only in her thoughts. _James went to set a trap. He just followed his instinct, making no decisions. Alice said that was how she saw the future—someone would make a decision—so James is setting a trap. Doesn't that like suck a lot? Your little beloveds won't make it back. The little tramp won't be able to stop him, and then who's going to protect your little girlfriend?_ Victoria, seeing the horror in Edward's expression, gave a maddened cackle.

Jasper, Edward realized, had given up on the charade of calm, and he was kneeling back staring over Edward's shoulder at Victoria, and his expression was livid. _James is going after Alice, ain't he?_

Edward gave a single nod.

And with a jerk of a movement, Jasper bit off Victoria's leg.

Edward cut off Victoria's shrieking response with the slice of teeth and the ripping of stone head from stone neck.

"Is anyone going to tell me what just—?" Emmett threw his hands up in the frustration.

But Edward was already out the window and running. Behind him he heard their thoughts.

"Grab matches. Burn the place. We need to get to Alice and Bella," Jasper ordered as he threw a roll of paper towels onto the pile already made up of Victoria's head and leg, and then he made work on the body, dismembering arms and legs and throwing them on top the file one at a time.

"Aw, fuck," Emmett swore, but he was already lighting the grill, sticking napkins into the flames, and tossing the burning paper onto the pile of red hair, white limbs, and debris.

And then they, too, shot after Edward.

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February 15, 1931

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Edward's fingers moved with a pace that was inhuman, elegant, and rigidly wrathful. He knew the subtle whine in the keys beneath his fingers was screaming out at the excess of pressure. He knew that he was letting his anger at himself seep into a song that wasn't supposed to be about him—it was supposed to be for others, but then it was like he couldn't play anything but this.

So he kept playing.

There is no path the devil's rod divines,

no trees that walk, no stones that fly,

no magic whisper etched in rhyme

that dare to divide truth and lie.

And then the two candles in front of him were disjointed and uneven, and something had to change. Edward's first desire was to pick up the brother and use him to light the sister, but...

He puffed out his cheeks and changed his mind.

He blew out the candle instead.

And then the room was dark, silent, and dead.

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March 15, 2005

\+ l + l +

Once again, Edward was running. Emmett and Jasper grew farther and farther behind. As he ran, Edward was counting every one-hundredth of a second as wasted drop of blood. A loss. A waste. A sacrifice. Every single black speck of time was against him—

He was running and chanting again.

_Bella. Bella. Bella._

_Hold on, Alice._ _Hold on, Alice._

_I'm coming. I'm coming._

_I'll kill you, James. You'll not touch them, James. Not my love. Not my sister. You'll not touch them._

_Bella. Bella._

Edward saw the path ahead like a single glaring light, and that other part of his mind wondered if this moment for him was like the light at the end of the tunnel—as if this moment to which he ran was the final moment of his true life—because he realized he'd been truly living in the last few months—he'd been alive in a way he'd thought was forbidden to him—but these moments—they might be fake moments—they may be blissful ignorance—because he might be too late—he might have already lost her. It might be too late. Time might be up.

_Bella. Bella. Bella._

Through the moonless dark of the mountains, he ran toward the light.

Vaguely, Edward knew where he was. Though his entire being was focused on the scents and thoughts and sounds, Edward knew this valley through which he fled. He was in the valley south of Mount Carrie, and the traces of Alice and Bella were growing stronger.

Bella's smell was a beacon for him. Every twig or blade of grass whispered her name for him to follow. Thus, when he released himself to his instincts, they more or less propelled him in her direction.

But there was the other smell twisted in with Alice and Bella's. James's smell—like prairie grass and faint sandalwood—it was less noticeable but ever present. It smelled dangerous in how it was subtle—like a lion had chased its prey through the savanna.

That—Edward realized—is what must have happened. That was why they were so far south, and why Alice had not continued west. Alice had seen that James was coming—and yet she had seen too late.

Edward ran faster, shooting up the other side of the valley, gaining in altitude before shooting down again, and he realized he was climbing the northern side of Mount Olympus, and the winds were harsher here, muffling his ability to hear up the mountain.

And yet he could hear wisps of thought.

He ran faster.

And then he heard...

_Against the rock face and then... he comes from the left so we slide..._

We.

We.

We meant Bella and Alice.

They were still alive.

_Alice scrambled with Bella to a higher ledge. Bella's face was flushed and looked somewhat... green, but also he eyes were determined and focused despite the whirlwind blurs of speed and darkness._

_James leaped after them._

_Alice saw his spring—James was jumping for an adjacent ledge—but she ended his maneuver by thrusting a heavy rock against the edge—thrusting it at super-speed at the ledge's brace point so that the platform crumbled as James tried to gain his footing on it, and as a brief spot of victory, James fell down to the lower shelf of cliff._

_The relief was short lived though, because when he regained his footing, James called, "Two can play at that game!" And he started launching chunks of stone at Alice and Bella—and while the rock was harmless to Alice—it was potentially lethal to Bella, so Alice was twirling about the cliff ledge, ducking and high-kicking and stopping not just the stones themselves but also the ricocheting bits from touching Bella._

_Alice was trying to leap away, but the spots were limited—and if she jumped at the wrong time, she could leave Bella open to an assailing rock._

Edward ran until he was staring up at the giant wall of a rock face, and he had to jump—digging his finger into the stone of the cliff when his leap fell short of impossible expectations—and then he was throwing himself up again—and landing.

_Above him, James heard his approach, and knowing his time was shortened. James made another leap at Alice._

With Bella clinging to her, Alice jumped down toward Edward—though still two leaps away from him.

James followed just as quickly, and then it was cat-and-mouse. Alice danced from side to side—and though she was fast—James seemed just as fast. It was then that Edward realized what Laurent meant when he had said James was "lethal." It wasn't just in his talent or his particular brand of evil—though both were part of it. It was that James was more instinct than thought. More predatory animal than sentient being. He followed Alice's every move almost playfully—but still with perfect focus. The nostrils on James' broad nose flared in delight as he moved, and he made a jump and threw another volley of rocks.

To dodge, Alice was at the cliff edge—and James was between Edward and Alice.

Edward finally got a real look at the situation. Alice's shirt was torn, and Bella—there was something odd about Bella's leg—the way her face cringed, and the way that it hung. Broken or sprained.

 _Edward jump now_ , Alice commanded, and she did something dangerous—she turned her body so that Bella was partially exposed—but not really.

Rage-filled, Edward leaped—but then James didn't take the ploy—James leaped back at Edward.

And Edward saw the change in time to partially adjust—but not enough to completely block it, and James' retaliation was faster than Edwards—he moved his hands in some maneuver that Edward had never seen—and a knee knocked Edward's hand at the same time that teeth threatened his shoulder, and Edward had to twist to avoid getting his arm ripped off, and then James' twisting flip managed to throw in a slam that sent Edward into the cliff face, and then Alice—for once leaving Bella unprotected—made a leap at James.

And Edward saw what she had seen.

_James leaping at Edward—James catching his neck._

But the vision changed.

_Alice caught in James' grasp._

And then she was. His teeth were at her neck—and Edward was about to counterattack, but then there was the threat.

"Don't move," James growled—and it was muffled by his mouth being on Alice's neck.

Edward, Alice, and Bella froze.

And then it got worse, because Bella was on the other side of Alice and James—opposite of Edward, and James had another stone in his hand.

A stone aimed at Bella.

He had them both at his mercy.

"Oh, good, you get it," James drawled. "And I thought I was going to have to explain. Now, we can have a short chat."

Edward watched his thoughts—waiting for a moment of distraction, but James was in high alert. Completely focused. If Edward jumped at him, he might lose both Alice and Bella.

"I've decided that even though you and your little girlfriend were pretty awful to me, Alice, here, hasn't been that bad—only a touch annoying, and so I've decided to offer you a deal. You have a choice, Edward. You can either have your spongy little girlfriend or keep your talented sister. If you don't choose—then you lose both. Pretty simple. So do tell me, who's the lucky lady on this fine night?"

Alice growled in response, and James laughed, but Edward just looked on in horror—completely paralyzed.

And to make it worse, Alice's thought were urgent in his head... _You can't stall him, Edward. He knows the others are coming. Get Bella out of here. I've lived a long life. Tell Jasper I love him. Tell the others that this was my choice._

But even then Edward knew it wasn't a choice, because after James killed Alice, he would still... Edward shook his head—and couldn't even begin to reconcile that he was thinking that way.

As if sensing his thoughts, James spoke again. "I really will let you go with your girlfriend," James cooed. "After all, your family is coming, and sticking around to play with you would interfere with my get-away plan."

Edward growled at him.

Overhead , the moon emerged from the clouds, and illuminated the Olympic forest with ghostly light, and down below, coming from the forest, were the distant sounds... _Jasper. Emmett._

They were coming.

James laughed, but then he sighed, teeth threatening to cut as they grazed Alice's skin. "You are soooo boring and predictable, Edward. And by the way, you have three seconds. Three..." He held up three fingers.

"Pick Bella, Edward!" Alice shouted.

But then Bella screamed at the same time, "No. No. No! No, he won't!"

James rolled his eyes. "Tsk. Tsk. Seems like Bella is getting mouthy again. As much as it entertains me, I think she might need a rock down the gusset to shut her up. What do you say, Edward?"

But Bella was still shouting at James. "You won't do this! You won't make him play your games. He's not you! He's not a monster like you!"

"Oh, really?" James muttered flatly, and then in Alice's head, Edward saw the words "Time is up" begin to shape on his lips before they actually did—but then the vision dematerialized. The future changed.

Because, Bella standing on the edge of a cliff, said a final "no," and then turned to stare at Edward. It wasn't even a full second, that stare. Gazing back, Edward had never wished so desperately that he could read her thoughts, and yet he feared in that moment that he could read her face perfectly.

Her eyes said "goodbye."

Alice—focused so completely on the future closest to the present—suddenly found herself staring at a rapid series of images that made no sense to her. _Bella with marble skin and red eyes. Bella with soft cheeks and unfocused brown eyes. Bella with red eyes. Bella, deathly pale but not marble..._

And then Bella took a step. She took a step like she was taking the weight off her injured leg, but she stepped—she stepped too far.

She stepped, and then gravity seemed to swallow her up.

It almost seemed like an accident, except that her lips were moving as they sank from view, and the words "you choose" were the final shapes they formed.

Not even James believed.

He threw the rock at air as an act of mindless retaliation.

And in a perfect spin, Alice caught James' neck before the rock released his hand, and the smell of venom erupted on the platform.

But down below.

So far down below.

The scent.

The scent that sang Edward's throat to the edge of its sanity.

Bella's blood.

It screamed at him even as he leaped to catch it.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. " _Hell bent for leather"_ seems to be a very recent usage in which two phrases: _hell-bent_ and _hell for leather_ have been run together. The _bent_ in _hell-bent_ means "determined" or "resolute", as in "bent on revenge," so _hell-bent_ means "intent on going to hell." H _ell for leather_ , on the other hand, means "fast." It occurs twice (1889, 1893) in Kipling's stories of the British Army in India. In both cases it refers to horse-riding and _leather_ probably refers to the saddle. It may have originated as Army slang or it could possibly have been one of Kipling's inventions.
> 
> 2\. Pastiche got lazy on end notes.


	12. Yet the Soul Would Object

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March 16, 1931

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Edward stood when the knock sounded at the door.

Edward had known it was Carlisle from the moment he'd set foot on the street twenty houses up. The air had changed, and the _pitter patter_ of the storm had faded into a thoughtful murmur. But more than that, the sounds of his footfalls—no matter how soft the padding of rubber on concrete—beat like the most familiar, soothing base, and then there were the soft touches of his thoughts: _worry, excitement, hope._

When the knock on the door sounded, Edward trod down the hallway at a nervous, near-human pace. He stopped at the end of the foyer. Gazing through the stained glass of the front door, he saw the sharp-edged profile, softened only by the ripples of the streaming rain. Edward opened the door with a slow swing.

Carlisle stood before him, staring at Edward with warm, golden eyes. Edward looked back for only a second, feeling a surge of something like relief, before remembering his eyes were barely amber, and then he stared down at the floor, ashamed, frightened by his own reticence, and completely at a loss for what to say.

And Carlisle's thoughts were in a similar tumult, a pretzel of questions. _Amber means... And yet he looks ashamed? Though his letter…_ And the flash of distant memory— _a boy with hoarse coughs and with little luster left in his pale green eyes who gazed up at him from his hospital palate with a look of such pain..._ With the stamp of that memory, Carlisle's questions faded to the back of his mind, the compassion that was his driving instinct took over, and he reached down and grabbed each of Edward's hands and brought them together, lifting them until Edward's face lifted too. Carlisle gave their clasped hands a squeeze, smiling slightly.

Edward tried to smile but the expression did not meet his eyes. Seeing this, Carlisle acted on impulse. He pulled their hands upward and kissed the top of the pair and said, "No more downcast eyes, Edward—not for my son."

Edward's eyes, though they had been looking _at_ Carlisle's, finally looked _into_ Carlisle's, and as in the past, when he looked Edward saw not just kindness but ancient wisdom and a belief in goodness that could only be called bravery. Carlisle, for whatever reason, had believed in him all along, and Edward only had to meet him half-way. He couldn't _not_ return the gesture. Thus, with a wan smile, Edward pulled their hands toward him, and then he kissed the top of Carlisle's knuckles and said, "Hello, Carlisle, my father," and the affection and tension were fulfilling yet so out of the ordinary for them that Edward smirked slightly on the last word.

His smirk broke the strain of the moment, because Carlisle laughed and said, "But really, Edward, three years?"

Edward shrugged and their hands dropped. "I didn't exactly have a schedule laid out."

Carlisle nodded, growing serious again and then placed a hand on Edward's back before gesturing down the hall. "Perhaps, a long chat would do the both of us some good?"

Edward cringed, but then he nodded. _The best time to clear the attic was when the ladder was down._

"This way," he told Carlisle and led him to the living room, where they took their seats on the couches.

With the piano to his right, the rain humming down the windows to his left, and the collection of candles on the table before him, Edward began to talk.

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It was hours later, and Edward was still trying to explain. His initial departure was easily understood. Why he left was not in question, but why he was returning and why _now_ —that was the topic which Edward was struggling to put into words. He first started to try and summarize, but that seemed to trivialize his intentions in each instance—so he resorted to going through the deaths one at a time. Admittedly, some of his actions he still felt good about. He'd never regret saving Dorothy from that pedophile. He'd never feel bad about preventing rape, and he felt no remorse about killing the pair of female vampires in New Orleans.

"—stop there." Carlisle cut him off with a finger raised in the air. "Why didn't you regret killing the vampires?"

Edward thought he saw where Carlisle was going with his thoughts, but he decided to humor him. Narrowing his eyes and playfully swinging a fist in the air, Edward chanted, " _Because_ they were vicious, _bloodsucking_ demons with _no_ consciences, and there was no way to stop the murder of an _innocent_ , goodly, and quite funny—I might add—woman and her children, except by eliminating those _two vicious harpies._ " Edward finished with a smile.

Carlisle ignored his tone. "Would you feel the same way about an animal?"

"An animal?" Edward repeated back to him, brow furrowed.

"What if a large predator, a bear or a lion, let's say, had threatened that woman and her children. Would you have killed it?"

"Probably? Or given it to the zoo?"

"Would killing it have felt the same?"

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty about it?"

"No, I'm asking you why you feel bad about killing evil humans but not about killing evil vampires—they are, as you said, both evil."

"Well, I suppose one is an immortal super predator and the other is the equivalent of a misbehaved goat—it's sort of like comparing snakes to worms."

_And what about the blood, Edward?_

"Ah," Edward sighed and then he looked away, out toward the window. "It does get addictive."

"It's addictive, yes, but it's why I always disagreed with you. After all this time, can you say it didn't shape your decisions? Would you say that you can be a blind judge when you benefit from the consequences? Even knowing all that you knew?"

There was a lengthy silence and then a whispered, "no," and then Edward chuckled darkly. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions..."

Carlisle reached across the table and grasped his hand. "I know your mind, and you are not a bad person, Edward. Your intentions have always been the best."

"What does it matter, anyway?" Edward questioned in a despondent tone. "We're soulless creatures, even if we try our best, we're still killers. We kill, the most cardinal of all sins, and then we try to make it up with petty deeds. We—"

But Carlisle cut him off. "—no good deed is petty, Edward, and while I think you know that I'll forgive you regardless, someday, you'll have to forgive yourself too. You're dismissing them now, but it's not just through grand acts that we prove ourselves, especially not as immortal creatures. We prove ourselves through those petty deeds. We become civilized by our sacrifices, by forgoing blood, by putting our talents to use, by paying tribute to our lost humanity even as our instincts bid us to forgo it," and then Carlisle stared at him, his breathing escalated from his small speech, and his mind willing Edward to take his words to heart.

But Edward couldn't. He wasn't like Carlisle. Not only had Carlisle never killed a human in blood lust, he had spent centuries working as a doctor to prove that he was better than his instincts. With a frown, Edward answered, "I'm not sure small deeds can ever make up for what I've done."

Carlisle's hands clenched into fists. "Edward, you mistake innocence for goodness. They are not the same. You are not a better person if you've faced no real obstacles—if you've never fallen."

"There is such a thing as falling too far," Edward muttered.

"There is," Carlisle agreed, and then he smiled at Edward. "But we wouldn't be sitting and discussing it here and now if that were the case."

Edward gave him a weak smile.

"Also, you say that I've never done anything wrong, but I have. I've taken life, as well. I took yours—and Esme's."

Edward rolled his eyes. "Carlisle, we were dying for christsakes. We—"

"—but I still made a decision for two people without their consent, and while the circumstances may mitigate my doing so, I still cannot feel entirely at ease with my actions." Edward looked at Carlisle with a touch of surprise, but Carlisle continued, "Yours and Esme's blood is the only that I have ever drank—and even if I took it to save you—I still took it in part for myself. Because I wanted to keep you."

"But you love us," Edward insisted. No matter what he had said to Carlisle in the past, to actually hear him doubt himself was... Edward _hated_ it.

"I do, and that's what I'm trying to explain to you. If I had to make the decision again, I would do the same—all over again. I would sacrifice for forever if it meant I could keep you both. That is what I'm trying to tell you. My family is something I cannot live without. No one is perfect. We are all the products of our decisions and judgments. We live in spite of our failings. In spite of demons. That is the essence of a soul, Edward. Not innocence. Not purity."

Edward remained quiet for another long moment. He almost replied a few times, but then he changed his mind on what he meant to say. Finally, he stood and strode across the room. He sat down at the piano, and then turned toward his father. "I'm going to play something for you. I'm not entirely sure how to describe it, but I guess..." and Edward trailed off, thoughtful. "I guess I'd say it's my way of showing you that I understand."

And he started playing the notes for his father.

\+ l + l +

January 30, 1934

\+ l + l +

Edward couldn't stop yelling. He had dragged Carlisle here. He had grabbed his arm and pulled him, making him run alongside him until they were at a safe distance for privacy, and then he'd been able to unleash his bubbling fury. " _If only she was the one for him..."_ Carlisle had let _THAT_ slip. The thought was intermingled with his memories of that night—the night when Carlisle had changed Rosalie. Edward didn't know how Carlisle had managed to keep his thoughts hidden for so long... But it explained _so_ much, which was why Edward was yelling.

"How could—you—possibly—even— _think_ —that I would want _her_ in that way? Her of all people! As a human, she was self-centered, vain, pompous, and vindictive—and as a VAMPIRE—!"

"Edward—that's no way to—"

"No! How could you Carlisle? I bought your earlier reasons—that you couldn't ' _help it_.'" Edward's face went from furious to mocking as he repeated Carlisle's former words. "You said it was 'such a waste,' but what were you talking about Carlisle? —Rosalie's death or _my lack of a mate_?!"

"It wasn't only for that reason." Carlisle uncrossed his arms and opened them with a pleading expression on his face.

"Because you like 'pretty things,' then? What the hell, Carlisle!?"

"Let me explain!"

"Why should I?"

Carlisle spoke the words slowly. "Because _we_ all make mistakes."

That silenced Edward.

Carlisle went on. "My decision to change her was rash, and I admit, I wasn't thinking only of her welfare, though I knew she would die without the change. I was thinking of..." _yours._ He looked down and with clenched fists, and then he whispered, "I _hate_ seeing you unhappy. _Lonely_. I wanted you to have what I have with Esme." Carlisle glanced up at his son then, his expression, begging. "I'm sorry, Edward. I thought I could make you happy."

Edward sighed, once again hearing every ounce of love poured into Carlisle's thoughts and words, and then he looked up to meet Carlisle's gaze. _You're forgiven,_ Edward's look said.

Carlisle relaxed at Edward's calm.

"Though, I have to say..." Edward trailed off thoughtfully, before smirking suddenly. "You have a strange idea of happiness, Carlisle..."

Carlisle shrugged. "Be kind to your sister, though I admit to being a horrible matchmaker."

Edward snorted. "You can say that again."

"Be nice..." Carlisle warned.

"No, _seriously_. What in your right mind made you think I like blondes?"

\+ l + l +

June 13, 1937

\+ l + l +

They were upstairs. They were doing it again—which was fine—except that Edward couldn't ignore it.

_...the bestest, most juiciest, most roundest butt in the entire world. "Shake it, Rosie!"_

_Rosalie growled at him instead, and then her nails came down slashing at the fabric of his shirt._

_"NO. BABY. I said shake your ass!" Emmett lunged at her as they both laughed._

Edward began rhythmically smashing his head against the paneling.

"Oh, Edward, please stop that. The carpenter is on vacation with his family for the rest of this month."

He stood up and glared at Carlisle and Esme. " _Hearing_ it would be one thing—but hearing _everything_. I need you to pour lye into my brain at your earliest convenience."

Esme tsked.

But then the pounding upstairs grew louder.

"Oh my." Esme frowned, clutching a book as the shaking was driving it dangerously close to the edge of the desk. "I suppose I'll have to call in a temporary carpenter, regardless."

Edward spun on his heel. He turned to face Carlisle and shook his fist.

Carlisle extended both of his hands helplessly. _What can I do?_

Edward smacked his hand over his eyes, groaning.

There was a sound of cracking boards above.

After a final set of baleful glares at Carlisle and the trembling ceiling above, Edward made for the door. "If I run away again, you can't blame me!" he called as he stomped off into the night.

Esme chuckled lightly and returned to her drawing.

\+ l + l +

October 4, 1950

\+ l + l +

The new additions were an unlikely pair. Jasper—the male—said next to nothing but merely looked around, skeptically taking in the details about his new family. Alice, the young female, was the complete opposite, rhapsodizing about the table cloth of all things.

Edward liked them, though.

Despite the male's coolness and the female's garrulous pep, they worked well together. They worked well in a way that would fit with Carlisle's family. There were brushes of fingertips that were so subtle—and yet Edward could see the thought process behind each interaction. Jasper sensed Alice's nervousness, and those small touches were to reassure her—though, Edward pondered, it was odd that Jasper even needed to comfort her. With her talent, Alice, when choosing her words, could choose the ones that best fit the desired outcome. Yet, she relied on Jasper as he relied upon her. They trusted the other's judgment but found reassurance in each other's presence.

Edward was thinking about that when Jasper nudged him, and then thought aloud, _Sooo... you'd be the mind-reader, then?_ He was eying Edward with a touch of wariness, as he was unused to this form of communication.

"That would be me," Edward acknowledged.

"Figured so." Jasper gave a firm nod as he pursed his lips and considered all the implications. _It be nice to have that talent—protection and all that._ He looked in the direction of Alice, _but then again... I'm not sure I'd want to know everything._

"No, I can tell you. You definitely do not."

 _I get you. Double-edged sword is what it is, these goddamn "talents."_ But then Jasper was distracted because Alice started hopping as Esme showed her the new sewing machine. _Well, there's a relief. Someone else to badger about muslin and tulle with..._

Edward half-smiled, because he liked both Jasper and Alice, but he then...

There was that empty feeling in his chest.

Edward made his excuses to go up to his "new" room. (Alice and Esme had cheerfully moved him the day before.) He put on some Chopin, stretched across his bed and tried to figure out what was bothering him so much.

It was certainly the newcomers, but it wasn't them as individuals _per se_ , so much as them as vampires. He'd never met a vampire couple in which both possessed talents. Normally, it was one or the other, but Alice and Jasper had talents, and they complimented each other. They filled the gaping hole somehow. They made each other whole.

And that was what was affecting him now.

The feeling of something like hope.

And his inability to touch it.

\+ l + l +

November, 21 1984

\+ l + l +

Edward ran ahead, the snow spraying as he blasted through it. At the lake's edge, he slammed his heel down, and the ice gave a heavy groan and splintering crack as it split all the way to the middle of the white basin. Edward plunged in, wading into the icy bath and only slightly noticing the tingle as he submerged himself into the clear, frozen depths. He dove deeper down, gliding along the icy floor and trying to make his mind as empty as the crystalline chamber that engulfed him.

It was starting to work—until he heard the polite knock on the ice above.

"Yoo-hoo!" Alice called from above.

Looking up through the glassy water, he saw her shadowed profile, the waving of her hand visible through the blur of the ice. With an irritated shake of the head, Edward swam upward, fist extended as he smashed open a hole.

When he emerged, he saw that Alice, a finger on her lips and a hand on her hip, was watching him plaintively. "Yes?" he asked, crossing his arms across the shelf of ice in front of him.

"You did that like a killer whale would," she explained.

"That's nice, Alice," he spat, annoyed. "What do you want?"

"To talk." She smiled and then crossed her legs and sat down.

"You interrupted my swim."

"Because you were sad."

"I would say 'harassed' is a better description."

"Tanya does like you."

"I was talking about you harassing me."

"No, you weren't."

"Fine," Edward gave in. "I'd planned on hiding in the lake until we were ready to leave. Is there something so unpleasant about that?"

"I told her to leave you alone."

That silenced Edward. He spoke more softly, "You didn't have to do that."

"I did." She tapped her forehead. "With Tanya, all paths lead to more hiding in the lake."

Edward bowed his head and stared at the patterns in the ice. "I could never love her," he whispered.

"Which is why I asked her to desist in her attentions. It's not nice to bother my brother that way."

Edward smirked at her words, and then he looked up at Alice with a warm smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she answered, smiling back, and then she extended her arm. He grabbed it, and she easily pulled him out of the water. "So, what do you say about ice-fishing? We've never done that! I wonder what seal blood tastes like..."

"Sounds delightful," Edward muttered flatly.

"Don't be so sour," Alice teased. "I bet it's rich and fatty, like a treat—like _eggnog_ at Christmas!" _I wonder if I've ever had eggnog..._ She pulled on his hand, and he followed, his heart somewhat unburdened.

But still so empty.

\+ l + l +

June 20, 2000

\+ l + l +

"You haven't smiled in weeks," Carlisle pointed out.

Edward shrugged. "We can go on a trip if you'd like."

"Oh. Is there another language you'd like to master?"

"Not really. Although I'd like to visit St. Helena. Jasper would, too. The whole exiled Napoleon thing interests him, apparently."

"An isolated island in the middle of the ocean, how pleasant," Carlisle said evenly, and then he reached across to Edward and pressed his hand. "I'm not sure travel is the solution."

"I'm a single, century old vampire—I have to complain about something."

Carlisle smirked slightly before asking, "What about doing something along the lines of what we talked about? What about giving back?"

"I don't have your control. I can't be a doctor."

"Not all doctors deal in blood, Edward."

"True."

"What about being a psychologist?"

Edward wrinkled his nose. "But then I'd have to be around humans."

Carlisle nodded and pressed, "And is that so horrible?"

Edward shrugged and turned to face the window.

"It's just that you have such perfect control now—and I don't like seeing you like this. It's grown worse—not better—over the years. You still haven't exactly forgiven yourself. You've kept it hidden, and I know you hide it from us. It's only sometimes that you let it show, and well, you have haven't played the piano in over a year."

"I haven't felt inclined," Edward grumbled, still not looking toward Carlisle.

"Just consider it, Edward. You could use your talent to help others in a way that no one else could."

"Just like I could selectively get the murderers in a way that no one else could?" Edward retorted wryly.

Carlisle didn't back down. "You can think of it that way if you want, but now you can save lives instead of taking them." _Petty deeds_ , _Edward. Petty deeds._

Edward glanced up, no longer able to ignore the earnestness of the golden stare.

Carlisle did not break their gaze.

Edward was the one to speak first. "I'll think about it," he agreed with an exhale. "Maybe I can brush up with a psychology program or something."

Carlisle beamed at him. "I think that would be a great start."

\+ l + l +

March 15, 2005

\+ l + l +

As Edward threw himself off the cliff, he saw everything. He saw the paper white spotlight of the moon above. He saw the angry spikes of the forest fanning around the mountain. He saw the rushing approach of his brothers. He saw rocks. He saw crumbling dirt.

He saw her, though he smelled her more than he saw her. The world could have gone nuclear next door and that smell would still yank his attention away. And yet the smell was as much poison as it was nectar. It was what caused the horrible rolling in his chest as he dove. The empty black to suffuse into a ghost beat.

His feet caught the ledge on which she lay. His hands slid beneath her, bracing her, scooting her away from the dangerous outline of the end of the rock. His one hand traced the line of red along her side, found the split in the skin, and then pressed. His eyes were pacing her breaths, counting each rise of her chest, and looking with dawning horror at the incorrect curve of her back.

Bella's back.

It made him think of Esme, except this was not for the loss of some unborn babe. This was for him.

There was the vague awareness of Jasper flinging himself into the arms of Alice above. Emmett muttering something about "never getting in on the action." Alice screaming and ripping at a stone body that no longer moved.

And Alice's visions above:

_Bella, marble and smiling._

_A grave._

_Bella, marble and kissing him._

_Edward all alone._

_Black. Just black._

There was the pause of his brothers above. He heard their thoughts as they looked down. Their frustration. Their pity. They wanted to help, but the blood... and Alice. Alice held out an arm in front of them, stopping them. She gave a shake of the head and focused her thoughts on Edward. _Edward, choose her. Don't be a morbid idiot. Choose her._ When she saw that he hadn't moved, she insisted, _she chose you._

Choice. Edward almost scoffed at the word. It was his idiotic choices that had got him into the situation in the first place. Bella had made a choice—for him, but what choice had she really had? Bella had sacrificed everything for him. Because now she was here. Hunted and Terrorized. Her friends threatened. Her father murdered. Bruises. Gaping wounds. Her spine snapped in two. Fading pulse.

Edward gave what was a tearless sob and picked at the strands of Bella's hair, as he tried to rationalize himself into the right decision. He brushed aside the dark tendrils, and saw the creeping graying of the bruise on her cheek, but more importantly, Edward realized that Bella's eye lashes were fluttering ever so subtly.

And then there was a sound in her throat.

A groan.

Edward was instantly scanning her face, half-willing her not to come to consciousness, because... _the pain._ He did not want her to feel this. He did not want her to know.

Her eyes fluttered. The brown lashes shifting softly as her eyes appeared unfocused, only to squeeze tightly closed again.

She was conscious.

She was feeling the pain.

And then Edward was frantically searching for some way to make it better. To take away any mark of sadness. Every drop of hurt. All dark memory of what he had caused her.

But he could think of nothing... he couldn't move her. Not like this. And the blood.

He maddeningly repeated, "Bella, Bella, Bella," in as low and soothing of a tone as he could muster in his state.

"E-Ed-Edw—" she started before a choking cough cut her off.

"Don't talk, Bella. Don't talk," he insisted, a finger softly brushing her lips closed.

"D-did you?"

"Did I what?"

"D-did you choose—" Another cough. Blood on her lips. Edward's entire frame tensed as his throat snarled at the sight and smell of it. "—me?" she finished.

"If you die, I die. I'll always choose you," Edward repeated back to her in a rush.

That seemed to cause something new to surge through Bella, because a smile stretched across her lips, and she spoke over the coughs and hacks. "Good—D-Do-nut-let-me-bite-an-y-one n-nice, k?"

"Bite anyone?" Edward asked aloud, mostly to himself.

Then the visions in Alice's head up above began moving faster and with greater speed.

Erratic and changing with Edward's own indecision.

Bella gave another long groan, and then her brow furrowed, and her eyes grew more hazed, like the world wasn't making much sense, and she gave another cough and sputtered, "T-t-ime's u-up, I—think," and then her eyes rolled unfocused and lips parted as her head fell to the side.

Edward grabbed the sides of her face. He kissed her blood-stained lips. He pressed his hand over her heart, as if to insist upon on faster beat. But her heart was slowing.

He froze for an instant. He tried to think, but couldn't. All he saw was black. All he felt was black. The dark space in his chest froze in his despair.

But then he looked at Bella.

Her face was the only true life in the darkness.

He didn't think. Edward leaned down. His lips met the flushed skin until they felt the pulsing point beneath, and then his teeth bit into flesh, into the vein beneath her clavicle. Wet blood flooded his mouth, but the black space in his chest didn't even acknowledge the taste of it.

Later, he would realize it was the most selfish act of his existence.

One that he would always and never regret.

\+ l + l +


	13. A Light with No Flame

\+ l + l +

December 1, 2005

\+ l + l +

Edward leaped to stand on a high rock.

His eyes raked across the forest below, but the landscape was still—and then—a sudden flicker in the trees to the south. Edward almost lunged in that direction, except that the wind swept up, and the smell from that direction was...

Empty.

He searched out again, trying to sort out which sounds were which until the ruckus of a chase suddenly erupted from the east.

Edward dove ahead. He dove, and then he had to climb again, scrambling up another rocky embankment. At the top, he threw his legs over the wall of boulders and creeping evergreen and landed with a cloud of dust in the glade below. His nostrils immediately flared as he drew in the eastward scent, and then he was sprinting ahead, concentrating on the sounds and flickers of movement ahead, the chase of predator and prey.

Edward drew short when he reached the clearing.

Through the veil of green, he could make out a blur of white and brown.

\+ l + l +

March 19, 2005

\+ l + l +

After the first bite, Edward sealed Bella's other wounds with venom-coated licks. He scanned over her entire body, brushing away every last speckle of dust and dot of dried blood. He combed his fingers through her hair and straightened out the wrinkles in her clothes.

His hackles rose when he felt the approach of his siblings, but then he relaxed because there was no threat. Bella's smell was... it was changing. She no longer smelled like food, and there was no reason for him to go on the defensive.

Alice convinced him to let go the first time.

Edward let go of Bella with a reluctant final squeeze of her hand. There were deeds to be done. Business to be finished.

\+ l + l +

Edward found John making out with his Jeremy on the front porch.

Given the fervent noise-making and tugging-ons of fabric, Edward almost thought about knocking on the railing and suggesting that "they get a room," but then Jeremy chose to be sensible (one of them had to be), and the front door was kicked open. They disappeared with a slam.

\+ l + l +

Edward located Ben and Angela's minds at the hospital, sitting at the bedside of Ben's father, who was excitedly making plans. "...and you can get a decent engineering degree at the University of Washington, although you might want to look at MIT or Caltech for some post-graduate work."

"Dad!" Ben cut in, gripping his father's forearm just above the IV line. "I know. I'll do what feels right, okay? You don't need to worry about me right now. Just focus on getting better."

 _But I almost lost..._ Ben's dad opened his mouth to speak, but then he closed it again. "I just want the best for you—and I..." he trailed off again. _I want you to be happy, too._

Ben, seeing both warmth and reluctance on his father's face, shook his head and smiled at him. "It's okay, I know."

Ben's dad nodded back at him.

Angela stood then. "I think I'm going down for a quick bite."

"Oh, I can—" Ben made to stand.

"No, no, no!" She pressed gently down on his shoulder. "I'll be alright alone."

"But Bella and..."

"It's okay, Ben. You spend some time with your dad," she insisted with a meaningful look.

Ben finally acquiesced and sat back down.

After Angela shut the door, Ben's father said, "I like her. She's a good girl—reminds me of your mother."

Ben smiled but wrinkled up his nose as he regarded his father. "I don't know if I'd go that far... _dad_ , but yeah, Angela is the best," he finished in a soft voice.

Ben's father smiled. _He loves her..._

Exiting the elevator on the first floor, Angela walked into the same empty park area. It was the same park where Edward sat behind a frazzled looking topiary hedge. Angela sat down on an empty bench.

Her grief was evident. Images shot through her head. The headlines from the previous morning's newspaper. _Serial Killer Attacks Olympic Peninsula. Attorney Assaulted in Home. Forks Town Sheriff and Local Woman Murdered in Savage Attack in Port Angeles. Sheriff's Daughter Still Missing, Presumed Dead._ And then the other worries, _Bella's mom._ Angela had spoken with Renee the day before. They both had sobbed into their receivers. Angela had wanted to tell Renee about Bella. She wanted to tell Renee how happy Bella had seemed the last month. She wanted to tell Renee how she'd been so happy to know her daughter, but instead words failed her, so they both sobbed, finding comfort in their mutual loss.

But then, when she least expected it, there were the ironic bursts of cheer through the melancholy. _Ben's getting on so much better with his dad now. Sometimes tragedy brings about good things too..._ She smiled even as the tears streaked down her cheeks.

Listening to Angela's thoughts was painful for Edward. It hurt because Bella was so lively and human in all of Angela's memories. In those memories, Bella wasn't as she was now—burning through the pain of the transition.

Edward shook his head though and focused himself, and then he reached down to drop a bacon treat for the small animal at his side. Howdy still growled slightly at his movements but then snatched at the treat and greedily wolfed it down.

He and the puppy had come to something of an understanding. As long as Edward fed him and didn't threaten to eat him, Howdy would tolerate Edward without barking, but time had arrived for their brief acquaintance to end. Edward took a treat out of his pocket, held it up for the puppy to sniff, and then gave the treat a good toss across the yard.

It landed in the grass beside Angela's bench. She didn't hear its fall.

Edward let Howdy go then. The pup raced across the yard, eager for both its treat and its escape from the cold puppy-drinking demon. Howdy ground to a halt in front of Angela's bench, realizing for the first time there was a human there.

Angela, rubbing her eyes and wondering at the sudden appearance of the puppy, leaned forward. Smiling softly, she called to him, "Hey there, boy."

Howdy completely forgot about his treat and jumped into her arms.

Angela, laughing, snuggled the happy puppy closer to her. By her thoughts, Edward knew that Angela would keep him. It would be alright.

Edward ran home.

\+ l + l +

When Bella first awoke, the days were driven by instinct, a constant whirl of hunting, fevered lovemaking, and questions and questions and more questions.

Then one day, she asked the final question: "Do you regret it?"

He thought about avoiding her question, about asking her to clarify, but he knew exactly what she meant, so he answered, "Yes, I regret taking your humanity. No, I don't regret a single extra moment with you."

"You shouldn't regret _either_."

"But maybe it's not so bad to regret. Is it bad to regret the loss of something beautiful?"

"You mean you wish I was still human."

"I don't. I just regret not being able to give you everything, but I had to make a choice."

"I think you made the right choice," Bella muttered even as she leaned into him.

\+ l + l +

The next day he played the song for her. He had to work himself up to it. They were seated side-by-side on the piano bench, and Edward's hands were moving, and he softly began to sing:

 _If love could light a candle,_  
If fire could soothe the nightmares,  
If memory and thought would move in tandem,  
If dying stars could ask the prayers...

 _The differences twixt monsters and men_  
be neither night-day, nor hero-villain.  
Eros misshoots, Pandora slides the lid,  
Who superintends the designs of sin?

 

And yet the ardent soul objects  
to the silent heart's demise.  
"She ate fruit!" the hell king sings,  
and yet the archer stumbles, shoots awry.

If love could light a candle,  
If fire could soothe the nightmares,  
If memory and thought would move in tandem,  
If dying stars could ask the prayers...

Yes. T'would be better to dance alone,  
To waltz away to a nameless song.  
For Demons have no prayers to own;  
Paradise lost amid thorn and throng.

 

 _The empty heart eats itself._  
Tis not love, not life, a silent miscreation.  
True love sails with wings and sun  
above slavery to self, above temptation.

He played the first few stanzas, but then he stopped and explained. "It used to end a different way, like this..." he trailed off, and then the keys picked up, and he whispered:

 _There is no path the devil's rod divines,_  
no trees that walk, no stones that fly,  
no magic whisper etched in rhyme  
that dare to divide truth and lie.

Bella clutched at his hand. She looked like she wanted to cry, except that she couldn't. She couldn't cry any more.

"Don't worry, I changed the last bit," he explained, and Bella smiled wonderingly at him, and Edward's fingers were on the keys, and he gave her a nervous smile, before suddenly winking at her, and then his whole demeanor changed, as if life and potential were intoned in every word and key.

 _And yet the wick seems to hint_  
At a potential yet untested.  
As if the drips of wax and songs of past  
Could offer death redemption.

 _So love cannot light a candle,_  
But love could inflame my soul.  
A light with no blaze, a heart with no beat.  
A prayer in flesh to make me whole.

_._

\+ l + l +

December 1, 2005

\+ l + l +

Edward tried to make out the blur of white and brown through the haze of green.

But then there was a crackling of branches, a solid thud, and a delighted squeal, and Bella crashed into the bushes before him.

Her head popped up with a smile, while her hands forced down the sizable cat in her arms. The hunger in her expression—she looked ready to bite, but then her eyes popped slightly, and she hesitated, glancing up at him. Querulously she asked, "It's not one of the endangered ones, is it? I can never tell."

He shook his head, chuckling. "No, they're quite populous."

"OH, GOOD!" she exclaimed in relief, and then he watched as she bit down into the thrashing neck. Drinking with carefree whimsy, Bella lazily fell back into the bracken, completely oblivious to the death squirms of the cat in her lap.

Edward smiled inwardly as he watched her. Even with her torn dress, her leaf-covered hair and the mountain lion draped across her, she somehow looked sweet. He loved the way the rich brown of her hair contrasted with the cream of her skin and the blood red of her lips. Lips which were quite bloody now. Erotically so.

He shook his head to clear his mind. According to his family, they were supposed to be focusing on Bella's hunting. At first, it had been alright. Her thirst had been so potent that Bella was all mad-dash. As time went on though, it became clear that Bella was an "untidy" hunter. She always emerged from her kills in a macabre mess. Bella would look down at herself in surprise each time and be quite horrified at her state.

Edward thought it was a little funny.

And _erotic_.

He shook his head again and reminded himself to focus.

Bella finished with a satisfied gasp, and then she begrudgingly acknowledged the prey sprawled across her lap. With a furrowed brow, she gave a solid jerk of a knee which sent the corpse of the cat rolling across the clearing.

Edward gave an exaggerated _tut,_ shaking his head. "Bella, you should probably opt to lift the cat off of you next time before kicking him away. They splatter when you do that."

Bella frowned and looked down. Her eyes traced the trail of blood that went from her dress to the current position of the cat. "Oops."

Edward laughed, and then he knelt down beside her, brushing a sticky tendril off her cheek. "You also have blood here." He traced the corner of her mouth, which made her smile. "And here." He leaned forward to place a kiss on the edge of her nose. Bella's lips moved up as if to try and catch his, but he dodged them.

She frowned at his evasion, before asking "Where else?" rather coyly. Her fingers found the inner seam along his collar and traced along it, fingers tickling the edge of his bare skin as they brushed along it.

"There must be some in here," he whispered as his index finger pressed on the full curve of her bottom lip, making the wine-like stain appear.

In response, Bella's lips parted, and she leaned forward, sucking in his finger at the same time that her other hand grabbed at his belt and yanked him closer to her.

Edward smiled above her. "You're always a mess after you hunt."

"I blame you," she muttered, and her finger unhooked his belt buckle.

"That's not fair. I'm blameless," Edward replied, and then he grabbed the top line of her dress, just below her collar bones. He ripped the fabric straight down.

Bella, despite her breathing, despite the heightened feminine sweetness emanating from her, spoke in a tone that betrayed nothing. "I would beg to differ. The family thinks I'm a bad hunter because I always show up with my dress in tatters."

Her comment inspired Edward to shred the entire front of her dress, at which Bella gasped and tried to bat him away, though he caught her hand. She let him, and then he was hovering above her, the lower parts of their bodies pressed together and almost itching at the tingling pressure that grew and grew. When Edward spoke, it was in a low tone. "Well, I have to get rid of the bloody bits. It's not my fault you get blood all over. You should be more careful. You're much more Jo March than Lizzie Bennett with those stunts you pull."

He smiled and made to kiss her, but she pulled back. With a wicked smile, she rolled the both of them over, gaining the advantage and pinning his hands down into the soft loam of the forest floor and growling softly above him. "Don't throw the classics at me. You should stop such attacks upon my dress."

"I am sorry. It's just that I like the sound," he murmured, and then tensing his stomach and sitting upwards, he caught her lips between his.

Bella's lips relaxed, seeming to melt into his as he tasted the tingle of her venom on his tongue and felt the soft slope of her lips nibbling against his. Her hands forgot to keep his pinned and instead fisted into his hair, while he reached to pull her closer. But then, unexpectedly, Bella's mouth was gone.

"What sound?" she asked, looking at him with a hint of slyness in her smile.

"Well, there's the ripping, and then there's the..." One of his hands slid into the gaping top of her dress while the other yanked up her skirt and slid up her thigh.

Bella gave a shriek of surprise, tensing up at the sudden touches, but then unfroze with a long and low-voiced moan.

" _That_ sound," Edward replied simply.

Below him, Bella gave him a feverish nod, and then there was more unbuckling and a rush of hands, and then the skirt of Bella's dress was hiked above her hips, and Edward's pants were kicked off. Bella pulled Edward toward her, then into her, and they both made sounds that were somewhere between groans and growls as their bodies wedded into one.

Edward always waited for a minute before he began to move again. He would wait because he wanted Bella to adjust and relax, but also because it made him feel whole, looking at her this way and knowing that he was inside her.

When Edward did move again, when he slammed her body into the earth, when he knocked her against the slant of the gnarled tree trunk, or when he pushed into her as her hands pulled on and cracked a loose limb from above, Edward felt what he'd felt when her heart was still beating and she was still blushing: Edward felt warm.

Looking at Bella brought peace, no matter the bull's-eye color of her newborn irises.

They made love and half-fought until Bella gritted her teeth and called out his name and gripped him so tightly in her newborn way that he thought about warning her to stop (though he never did), and Edward wondered at how he could have ever existed without her.

Afterwards, they lay on the floor. Their fingers sketched angles, and their gazes were entwined in sweet contentment.

It was a while later when the wind picked up with a sudden _whoosh_ that Edward noticed their surroundings. That was one of the great changes between past and present. Edward no longer noticed the passage of time with Bella, and when he did, it never ceased to surprise him. He blinked as the bits of white fabric wafted about the clearing like snow, and then when he breathed in, he registered the stinging sugar smell of venom that permeated the air. The same smell warned the animals away. The reason their clearing was bathed in quiet.

They headed back sometime after the shadows became darkness. Overhead, the moon shone down. The tattered ribbons of Bella's dress sailed behind her as they ran.

_._

_-Fin-_

_._


End file.
